Pretending
by shywr1ter
Summary: Rule 12, impossible fathers, complicated childhoods, difficult jobs and lonely lives: Tony can't deny his feelings for Ziva and can't imagine how he could possibly do anything about them. Trouble is, his deepening gloom about it is affecting the team, and may lead to changes no one really wants.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made.

**A/N**: this story is kinda off the beaten path for me. It developed after seeing some argue that if TIVA hasn't happened by now, it never will. I disagree. These are two complex characters who aren't the same people they were when they met eight years ago; they've each been through a lot of major, life altering events, and each has changed several times since they met. They have a tough job, a tougher Boss ... and then there are the Rules.

So for me, the question is whether they'll ever be ready for 'TIVA' at the same time. And even if they are – will everything else still be in the way? Now THAT may be tough.

This takes place post-Somalia, but I'll let you decide how far – probably six to eighteen months would make the most sense. There'll be a few chapters – I'm guessing around four. That probably means at least six.

If you read on, I really would appreciate your comments, good or bad. I've been more comfortable with fluff, but wanted to give this a try – angst without being too over the top about it. If this works for you, or doesn't work, it will help me a lot if you'd let me know. Thanks!

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**PRETENDING**

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Tony's date that night had started – and ended – the way all his dates had, lately, whenever he gave dating another shot: he'd meet a new girl, they'd go to a club or to dinner, depending on her age and interests – and not too long after the second set – or dessert – he'd beg off, say he'd gotten a call that he was needed at work. He'd put her in a cab, apologize sincerely – then head for home.

His sanctuary, he'd called it, his retreat, his escape. His man cave. It was even more so now, these past months. He couldn't get up the energy to be upset about it or his dating life, no matter what he told them at work about his 'dry spells.' No matter what, dating or not, Tony DiNozzo, "class clown," was expected to love 'em and leave 'em and to worry if he wasn't doing so, just like always. As far as his co-workers knew, he was the same old Tony. But of course, they hadn't known about his truncated evenings.

This evening, though, he'd been rescued, saved from offering yet another charming lie by an actual call from Gibbs, ordering him to get to the Yard, where they'd meet up to take the truck to Annapolis and a body and scene waiting for them. Tony was mildly disappointed to find that the recent lies felt no less difficult than the truth had tonight; his manufactured excuses had come as easily as this real one did. He _should_ feel even worse that, instead of irritation or frustration at being called out after 10:00 p.m. on a Saturday night, in the middle of an ice cream sundae with a rather fetching paralegal, he felt relief. Sure, it was Saturday night, and sure, he felt exhaustion beyond reason, keeping up appearances at work, but he'd be with the team, doing what was familiar and what he did well, with people he considered family and with whom he'd rather spend time than nearly anyone else.

_Oh yeah? And when did you start to prefer work over sex, Very Special Agent DiNozzo?_

That wasn't it, he told himself, driving into the nearly deserted parking lot. It wasn't true, no matter how the past months had gone. Less and less willing to lie to himself, he'd begun to face facts: his disinterest in dating, in the beautiful dental hygienist and veterinarian and pilates instructor he'd sent home and sent packing, might have rattled him at one time, but things change – _he'd_ changed. At least, he wasn't worried that he'd lost his edge or his eye or his libido; he knew better. The only thing he'd _lost_ was the energy to play the game anymore.

– _not after Africa. _

And not after Israel. Not after Rivkin. Not after seeing the rage in his partner's eyes, rage he still couldn't be sure, even after all this time, was really _gone_; rage directed at him but meant for _all_ the men she'd let in, only to be used and hurt. Not after losing her. Not after having her resurrected before him, beaten and abandoned, but alive again after she'd drowned.

Not after seeing her returned to the States, but not fully returned to _herself._

The game was never the same after that; _things_ were never the same after that. It changed daily, hourly; things swung from his having a partner who came to him expressing humility and gratitude for her escape at his hand, to having a partner who was dismissive, even scornful of him, and ready for candlelight and silk sheets with men they'd never met, to everything in between. But no matter which Ziva appeared for the day, it was she who filled his thoughts, on duty or off, leaving no room for the dental hygienists and veterinarians and pilates instructors of the world. No matter how beautiful the other woman might be, Ziva was the only woman who intrigued him; no matter how intelligent and savvy and interesting their conversation, he found himself bored and distracted with any female who wasn't Ziva.

So he welcomed work, because Ziva was there too, and good days or bad, they'd have some time together. He'd get her back. If times were tough for her, he could be there, if she'd let him. When work was done, he felt little interest in playing the field. He'd done plenty of that, before – before he'd met Ziva, before he'd met Jeanne and let himself pretend a little too deeply, in his role as Tony DiNardo, to pretend he wasn't a very special agent who was falling for his partner ... before all the rest of it went to hell. Several times.

For a while he tried telling himself his feelings for Ziva developed because his work had been his life for too long now, and none of those other women could understand that. He would always remember when, after a bad case, he could show up a Ziva's door with a movie and a six pack or a bottle of wine, in those complicated days without Gibbs and his Rules; they would watch the movie and talk or not talk, but either way, she would _understand._ _He_ would understand, when she needed him to. They lives they led were mired in the worst of human behavior, full of physical risk. There was no way a dental hygienist or a veterinarian or a pilates instructor would ever relate to that, and there were moments now when Tony thought that was _all_ he wanted after hours – to be with someone who _got_ it...

"Hey, Agent DiNozzo. Called up again, I guess, huh? Agent Gibbs got here about ten minutes ago."

"Can't tug on Superman's cape, Portman," Tony quipped as he pulled out his ID, not even sure himself what that meant. "What with the superpowers, he can either fly here or just run really fast. I'm never sure how he picks which way to travel."

"Yeah. That's a good one, Agent DiNozzo," the older guard chuckled as Tony passed his card through the security scanner. "You and the team be careful tonight, y'hear?"

"Will do."

'_Someone,_' he reminded himself where he'd left off in his inner monologue. _Riiight_. He'd been in denial for months, even after he knew it was bullshit, given his thoughts and reactions every time he tried dating – and every time _she_ did. He wasn't looking for just any old 'someone' who understood, although he'd tried a couple dates with Paula and even Andrea Sparr from Metro. If all he wanted was downtime around someone who _got_ it, he'd end up in Gibbs' basement a lot more often than he did. However and _why_ever it happened, Ziva had wormed her way into his thoughts to the point where any woman he dated, or met, or even just ogled, was thrown into competition with her, and never, ever made the cut.

'_Winner and still champion, Ziva David!' _

_...and wasn't that just dandy?_

The elevator doors opened to the darkened squadroom. There was a cup of steaming coffee on Gibbs' desk, but the man nowhere on the floor. MTAC, maybe. Tony told himself if he didn't appear in another few minutes, he'd try upstairs. Meantime, he'd check the truck to be sure it was gassed and ready to go.

He was just passing the elevator on his way to the stairs when the doors opened and Ziva stepped out. She looked much more alert and energetic than he felt– interrupted early from her own night of clubbing, maybe? He knew that she wouldn't have been drinking, since they were on call, so no tell-tale scent of alcohol would give her away, and the days of smoky clubs were past. He'd never know unless she told them what she'd been doing, and it was still hard to know ahead of time which Ziva would appear – secretive ninja? Chatty tease? After his evening spent brooding, he just didn't have the energy to roll with her punches at the moment, so waved briefly and said, "gonna check the truck..."

"Got it covered, DiNozzo."Of course, true to form, Gibbs suddenly appeared from around the corner, heading back toward his coffee. "Called ahead and had it gassed up for us."

"What we got, Boss?" DiNozzo pivoted automatically to follow Gibbs toward his desk.

"Midshipman found dead on the quad. Where's McGee?"

"On his way. I can wait for him and bring the truck, Boss, if you and Ziva want to get started."

Tony thought Gibbs hesitated only briefly, his eyes narrowing at the suggestion – not so out of the ordinary that he should have been suspicious, he reasoned, but there was something that caught Gibbs' ear. "You covering for McGee or somethin,' DiNozzo?"

"If I am I don't know what for." He managed a grin. "I just figured there's no reason to wait, if we're taking two vehicles."

As if on cue, the elevator dinged again, and Ziva glanced toward it and back to the men. "Not even for McGee, either." They all moved toward the elevator doors before they'd even retracted, crowding in with McGee to ride it back down as he murmured an apology for arriving last.

Tony stared ahead at the metal doors, stretching his neck a bit to get the kinks out and keeping his thoughts away from Ziva by concentrating on what they'd find at Annapolis, running through his memory of the school's layout and what he recalled from their last trip to the campus. Usually, it was enough, focusing on the case. It was enough, when she was focused on the job, too, to be nearly, to be handy for her if Ziva was in the mood to chat or to have a laugh – her days of looking for a target to vent her rage weren't gone, but at least they were waning. He would steadfastly believe it was a sign she was healing. _Still_ healing.

"Gibbs, I will ride with you anyway," Ziva began imperiously. Tony knew without looking that she was working up to a jab; he knew the sounds of her teasing and her lighthearted mood. "I am sure that Tony will wish to brag to McGee about tonight's conquest."

"Maybe I want to brag to Gibbs about tonight's conquest, _Zee-vah,"_ he parried, knowing the fastest way to end to the conversation.

"The hell you will, DiNozzo."

He wasn't the senior field agent for nothin.' Gibbs and Ziva took the Charger. Tim and Tony followed with the truck.

_...to be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made.

**A/N:** All your comments got me wound up to do more right away! So I cheated - I sneaked this in when I should have been working. Now I have some serious catching up to do on office work! :P

I really appreciate all of you who have given this story a chance, especially those of you who worried that this story would be one-sided and unfair to Ziva. Although we heard only Tony's thoughts in the first chapter, your comments helped me realize I needed to shift gears earlier than planned, and let you see inside Ziva's head now too. (More about this at the end of the chapter). _See? Reviews matter! :}_

Remember that for any character's POV in this story, it won't be a neutral, balanced view of things. Rather – it's a peek into that person's thoughts as they react to the circumstances, based on their own (maybe limited) knowledge, experience and feelings, and how that character deals with difficult events and emotions. None is meant to be a narrator of 'reality' – only of their own, one-sided, banged-up version of it. You saw that Chapter 1 was Tony's depressed and brooding POV. In the privacy of his thoughts, he allows himself to be more moody and defensive and even a bit more accusative than he would be if he were speaking to _anyone_ – and, most of the time, especially to Ziva.

A warning: rape is mentioned in this chapter – not graphically, and not the act, but its effect: Ziva's response, her take on events, and her particular reaction to that and other things that happened during her captivity. My warning is to say that I am not generalizing about rape; it is in no way meant as a comment on it or the effect it has on people in real life; it's offered only within the context of what her ordeal might have meant to _Ziva._

_**Once again – many thanks to all of you who took the time to comment, either via PM or review. I am excited by how many people responded. You've helped me understand the challenge this story presents, even more than I thought it did when I started, so I hope I will maintain an even hand with these two. Keep those comments coming!  
**_

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**PRETENDING**

* * *

As she and Gibbs walked in silence to the Charger waiting in the lot, behind the evidence garage, Ziva took a moment to look at the stars overhead, and filled her lungs slowly with the cool night air, appreciating once again the moisture and even the faintly fishy scent of the Anacostia. It reminded her, moment to moment, that she had her freedom again. She was sure her father would not appreciate her dwelling on things; he had always been a strong proponent of facing things, dealing with them and moving on.

The sudden irony actually made her chuckle. If there was anyone in her life who preached "living in the moment," it was Eli, despite all the training and the preparation Mossad required – once you were in it, you were in it; once things were past, they're past. If that was not living in the moment...

_Well, "living in the moment" had a very different meaning these days_, Ziva reflected. She felt better than she had in a long while.

She hadn't believed that talking with someone about the horrors of her captivity would have any effect, but when she finally tried doing so, several weeks after her return, she found it had, some – at least enough that she could wake up most mornings without disorientation and dread. Even so, when a therapist suggested she try taking a yoga class, of all things, the idea seemed ludicrous and a complete waste of time. It was a too trite and far too stereotypical panacea for all ills, simply a middle class illusion that seemed to have infected everyone, everywhere, in the U.S. – was it not? After all her training, in more than one style of martial arts and in rigorous, demanding conditions, how could simple stretching and standing on her head be of any help?

As she reached the car door and grabbed the handle, Ziva smiled to herself, this time at her stubborn biases, glad to admit that she was wrong. When Gibb's call came tonight, she was finishing up a private session with her instructor, a kind soul who stretched her own day to meet Ziva's erratic schedule, for individual sessions; she was still in the heady glow of how great it made her feel, bending and stretching her body like a fine tuned instrument, once again willing to respond as she asked.

Ziva had never been self conscious about her body, but long had been highly sensitive to its workings. Just as she would be about her weapon or equipment in the field, on which her survival might depend, she was in sync to the smallest changes in her body and mind, her strength, her coordination. After all, she herself was a weapon; her body was her weapon of first and last resort. It was the gift her father had arranged for her, from when she was a toddler; from "Mommy and me" swimming lessons to dance to martial arts, from further training in weapons or self-defense or endurance, she developed a keen sense of power and balance. She always knew when she was the slightest bit out of alignment, when a day of off-schedule eating or more sugar than usual tipped the fine balance a tiny bit out of plumb. Since coming to the U.S., she allowed herself more leeway than she ever dared while she was active with Mossad, but she was never far from that perfect balance, and could adjust her intake and workouts so than in a handful of hours, she was again optimal.

That was ... until Somalia.

At every turn, her most trusted, reliable weapon – her very _self_ – was battered and damaged and violated; from the outside and deeply inward, she'd been flayed, far more than her team realized. She wondered if they could understand that her deepest scars came not from the physical violation she suffered, as humiliating and painful as they could be – but of the loss of self, the loss of her control, the loss of the balance and fine-tuned response her muscles and tendons and bones had always provided. It was something no one at Mossad, not even Eli, had ever thought to prepare her for.

Mossad had been pragmatic in its training, and anyone sent into the field, male or female, was warned about all types of abuse and torture at the hands of their enemies, rape certainly included. It was repeated, this warning, often enough, that Ziva was as prepared for it as she was the other physical torture and deprivations. She almost felt guilty, the one and only time she attended a rape survivor group, to see how ill-prepared the women there had been when they were attacked, even though they had no reason to hear all the warnings she had. As a female officer in Mossad, she knew from her earliest moments that rape was yet another method of torture that could be used against her; as such – and this was impossible to explain to anyone not from a county chronically at war, as Israel was – she was able to consider it less as a separate sort of abuse, and more as one in a litany of physical insults and injuries visited upon her.

But the overall privations and what they did to her – resulting in chronic illness there, with the unexpected inability of her body to fight off infection, in chronic weakness, compromised balance and coordination from her chronic malnourishment, dehydration, physical torture and lack of sleep – meant the loss of what she was and who she'd been, as if they took her very soul from her. Tony had never asked what she had meant, in Saleem's cell, when she said she was ready to die; he thought he knew, and she was grateful that he just assumed he did – because the truth hurt much more. She had tried one last time for courage, there in the dusty cell, as he suddenly appeared sitting across from her, and she managed to say that she was _ready_ to die. She didn't dare admit, not while her captors might be listening, that _Ziva_ had died long before. She was simply a ghost, waiting for release too. It made her losses easier to bear, when she understood that she had died along with the person she had been.

So she resisted the rape counseling and groups, resisted any counseling, all the while fighting to keep up outward appearances, to let her team see her as normal and coping, to ease the concerns of the counselor Vance made her visit occasionally. While Ziva knew she was nowhere near "fine," and observed, as if outside herself, when she would grow snappish or lose focus on occasion, she was at a loss to know how to heal: whatever the rape or PTSD counselors offered was not what she needed. Even worse, she feared that what she _did_ need was not real: how could anyone understand her loss as she felt it, the numbness and uncertainty, when it did not exist in the eyes of the Mossad? Had it been real, this ... _loss of self_ as she had come to think of it, surely Mossad would have prepared their warriors for it. And more frightening than anything, in the dark of night, in her nightmares, alone, was the pain and fear that, like losing a limb or one of her senses, she would never be whole again. That she could not find a way back to her old self. That the Ziva she knew and had been really _had_ died in the Somalian desert.

Until now. Ziva drew another deep, refreshing breath, holding it for a moment, smiling ruefully at the simplicity of the answer. Her yoga sessions had been the fastest path to centering her again, and pilates offered at the same studio once a week (she remembered asking Tony, so many lifetimes ago, "what's a 'pilate?'") helped strengthen her in the way dance once had, building her from almost nothing to be strong yet limber, balanced and quiet, but powerful and ... _alive_. The first time she'd felt that, that rush of life force again in her, in the darkened yoga studio where she stretched and strengthened and centered herself –_ in the moment, always staying in the present moment_ – her eyes suddenly overflowed in relief. When she tried apologizing later to her instructor, the wise woman simply smiled and said something about the many times "tears come on the mat."

It was not a perfect cure; it was still new to her, but Ziva felt a convert's zeal at finding something that gave her such hope for restoring herself. She still had nightmares, still had dark thoughts; she could not forget that she'd yearned for death and was cheated from its escape. She felt some guilt about Tony, what he'd been through both before her rescue, and all events surrounding Somalia, but was at a loss to know how to make things right, knowing she was still on the rocks and he ... he was a new, quiet Tony one day, and the old, irritating, horny buffoon the next. She would try approaching him, make things right between them again, she had promised herself – but she had to make things right for herself first. She had too far to go to know when she could reach out to him, or even to respond when he tried, but now, for the first time since her return, she knew it could come.

Letting her breath out in a slow, steady, controlled breath, Ziva bounced on her toes and stretched her shoulders, feeling charged with energy as she often did after a private session in the studio.

_She would be back._

...to be continued...

**A/N elaborated:** So Tony and Ziva are in two different worlds at the moment – but won't be for long. I hope you'll hang in with me – if at times one or the other of them says or does some pretty thoughtless things, that's how they can be on the show sometimes, and I'm hoping to offer some speculation as to they do what they do. They each have faced, and are facing, lots of _stuff_; neither is perfect, each is hurting in one way or another, and neither has caught on that they really _could_ help each other through the worst. Given all their issues, though, they may actually have more in common than they think.

It seems there's some serious baggage to kick out of the way before TIVA can make their way to a mature relationship, but I'm rooting for them to find something there – if they can just get themselves straightened out with each other!

Final note: talk about a convert's zeal – everything I included about yoga here, I wholeheartedly believe, after many years of practice and training. There is nothing more empowering than a handstand! I know that Ziva has done a lot more aggressive and powerful practices than yoga, but I've practiced with martial arts instructors who find it challenging and empowering as well - so that part's the real deal.

I think Ziva's circumstances are unique, and she would want to find her own way to healing. For the loss I've given her here, I think yoga would give her a lot of herself back, and help her move on from there. Besides – I like to think that this is what she's doing while Tony invents worst case scenarios for himself. :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made.

**A/N**: thanks to all of you who are giving this a try. Your reviews and other button pushing are appreciated! As always, any comments, no matter what or why, are welcome.

**Follow up A/N: **oh, no - after so many nice reviews, it looks like I've lost you! I _would_ like to know if you don't like this chapter, since it was probably my favorite of these first three - more team interaction and less psycho-introspection. Of course, if you _did_ like it - that's nice to know, too. Either way ... If this was disappointing, I'm sorry it didn't go as you'd hoped.

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**PRETENDING**

The last time the team had been called to the Naval Academy, the mid-day traffic and sudden rainstorm had made the drive last nearly two hours, and left Gibbs just a growl or two away from ordering a set of McGee's beloved jet packs for the team's 'local' trips. At least at this late hour, though, Ziva thought, Gibbs just might make the more typically fifty minute drive in less than half that.

She had opened the passenger side door and glanced up to see Gibbs cast her a look over the roof, watching her as if something unexpected had caught his attention. Trying a noncommittal smile, she slid into the seat and buckled up, aware without looking his way that Gibbs eyed her again as he started the car.

_At least he wasn't fuming about a missing suspect or an investigation going nowhere_, she mused. Even better, she acknowledged to herself a bit sadly, he wasn't looking at her with pity or concern or fear that she'd break. Even the stoic Gibbs had a hard time masking those thoughts since she'd returned. They'd appeared less often the longer she was back, but no one on her team was as relaxed around her has he'd been before – joking and teasing might have returned, but it was careful and sanitized, always coming after just that short beat as the speaker considered if it might inadvertently be the wrong thing to say. Discussions in the squad room might sound back to normal to an outsider, but they were now occasionally punctuated with a quick look to her – if McGee said something DiNozzo thought was thoughtless, or DiNozzo mentioned some event that Gibbs knew would be close to the bone, the look would come to see if she'd heard it _that way_.

Ziva had done all she could to wall off those moments, to let them pass without any ding in her still-thickening armor. She understood it would take time for them to put events behind them; and simply prayed she could hold out until they got past it all. But for the first time since she'd returned, Ziva had begun to see believe that she just might put things behind her, too. At that thought, her evening's buoying energy bubbled up a little again to encourage her in that thought, and she relaxed into another, comforted smile.

They shot through the night on the moderately empty highway in a familiar Gibbs-silence, the quiet hum of the tires the only sound. It was so much the usual quiet with Gibbs that his sudden question – especially, the nature of it – mildly surprised her.

"You're meeting with Vance again next week?"

She nodded. "Thursday."

He was quiet for a moment, then offered, typically low-key in the face of such important change, "could be the last one."

She turned to look at him in question, surprised and cautiously pleased that the moment had finally arrived. He went on, "long as the shrink is still happy with you. But then, that's worked out okay the other times, so... I'm guessing you'll be fine." He paused, then offered, "you've looked better lately, Ziver. Happier." Another pause, which, in her surprise, she did not fill. "Are you?"

Ziva considered the question and, despite knowing it required only a simple yes or no, suddenly found herself wanting to explain things to the one person in her life now she thought might understand. Looking out the window as she considered her answer, she began, "I know that, as an active Marine, you were expected to maintain the highest level of fitness, especially when you were deployed. Was there ever a time that ... that you _lost_ that?"

He looked uncertain with the question, and finally shook his head. "No, not really."

Her face fell. She'd hoped that Gibbs could understand... uncertain how she could assure him otherwise that she was truly on her way back, they rode in silence for several more moments, until she heard a low chuckle.

"But ... for shooting? Yeah..." His features softened into a rueful grin. "Sniper's gotta be on top of his game, all the time, right? Everything automatic, second nature. Ya gotta feel the shot or it goes to hell." He glanced to her and continued, "not long after I was deployed in Desert Storm, we were sent out on patrol for hours. I forgot my damn sunscreen." He chuckled again as she smiled, recognizing what was coming. "My face, neck even under my collar, my arms – pretty damn painful moving anything. I couldn't shoot worth crap, couldn't feel my rifle to line it up & kept going wide. Battalion commander had to rotate me out for two days until I could fire with any accuracy." His laughter softened, and he glanced over again, his gaze lingering just a bit longer this time and in his eyes, Ziva saw he'd gotten it. "You were awfully sick when you came back, Ziva. As good a shape as you were in before, and as healthy, when you went – it would still take an awfully long time for anyone to get better." When he noted, with some private surprise, that her eyes suddenly glimmered with moisture at his words, he looked back to the road and nodded with new satisfaction, "you're getting better."

"I am. And..." she managed, "it is especially good to know that someone understands."

"We do." After another moment, he snorted, "hell, ask DiNozzo how long it took him to get back up to par after having the damn plague. And don't take any bullshit from him – if anyone ought to get it, how it feels to get yourself back – _he_ ought to get it."

Ziva sat back in her seat, that thought not having occurred to her before. Nodding slowly as she considered it, she felt the comfort of his understanding and the hope for the same from her team. "I will remember that..."

From there, for the first time since her return, Gibbs asked, and Ziva told. She admitted her sense of loss and that the expected counseling was not what she really needed; she explained her stumbling into the benefits of her yoga classes and he was honest in his surprise to her enthusiasm. She explained how well it fit for her now, and she felt something akin to pride as he nodded his understanding and approval of her contentment.

She leaned back again into the car seat, feeling centered and balanced as they drove onto the Academy grounds. Another step closer to her return, and she felt as close to Gibbs, as accepted by him, as she ever had...

* * *

The truck carrying Tim and Tony to the campus was only fifteen minutes or so behind Gibbs and Ziva. Usually when they set out at the same time Gibbs would lose the more cumbersome truck readily, but Tony was grimly determined to get to the scene and get things started. McGee tried asking about his night a couple times, and then asking him if something was wrong, but at the moody growl he got in return, far more Gibbs in it than DNozzo, McGee gave up and just checked his e-mail in silence. He'd gotten a vibe from Tony recently that something was off; just as he had tonight, he'd tried a couple times over time to ask if he could help, to no avail. So far, it didn't seem to threaten anyone's safety or DiNozzo's work, so he kept a quiet eye on his partner without saying more. Things had been unpredictable and, at times, downright uncomfortable since their return from Africa, and as long as they were under Gibbs' watchful eye, McGee found it easier to just relax, and observe, and let Gibbs handle whatever needed handling. He didn't know of anything else he could do to be helpful.

Pulling up, Tim saw Ziva near a lighted doorway, speaking with a couple students, most likely witnesses. "You know, she looks better these days," Tim said, without thinking. "Ziva. She seems..."

He looked over to see an unfamiliar, strained look on Tony's face, as DiNozzo stared at Ziva but said nothing, jaw working slightly but not a word from him.

"Tony?" Tim didn't have to ask the rest.

"She's fine," DiNozzo said too quickly, then hesitated, softening a bit to amend, "she ... she looks fine. She does seem ... more relaxed. Less ... wary." He sat, staring out the window at his partner, and Tim sat staring at _him_, until they saw Gibbs turn from the body and stare at them both.

At the look, the moment was gone, and each scrambled to get their equipment out of the truck.

* * *

Tony forced himself to work methodically, periodically adjusting the extra flood lamp he brought to illuminate the area as he catalogued the evidence with his camera, while allowing his thoughts to wander where he hadn't yet that evening, including his his now-recognized feelings for Ziva. The two of them? A couple? It would never happen, _could_ never happen, for too many reasons. They would kill each other; they'd be forever angry at each other; they would question and pester and make each other crazy...

Tony wavered, camera at his eye, until his insistent thoughts forced him to look up toward his partner as she stood some yards away, talking with Gibbs about her findings thus far. Dropping his eyes immediately – between Ziva and Gibbs, it was hard to know whose Spidey senses would tingle first, but one of them would catch him staring if he paused more than a second or two. Shifting to get yet another angle, he glanced up to see he was being scrutinized by someone he hadn't anticipated – Ducky.

For anyone else he would have growled a warning to stay out of his head and his way, easily brushed off as a foul mood, but not for Ducky – for several reasons. He tried a small smile – one that felt reasonably honest – and asked, "in your way, Ducky?"

"No, we're done for now with this young man. We'll get him home when you're done."

There was a certain something in the doctor's tone – a knowing sympathy, maybe? – that put DiNozzo on the defensive.

It also popped Palmer's head up in curiosity.

Tony worked to keep all reaction out of his expression. _As if nothing at all is out of the ordinary... _"I won't be long. Just gonna put the light there and there," he pointed, "and get a half dozen or so with each."

As he set back to his work, Ducky replied, his tone still too gentle and concerned to be a coincidence, "not to worry, Anthony – you have your work to do as well." But instead of ambling off to work in his truck or make ready elsewhere, as he normally did, Ducky stood by, looking with mild interest at the body, as Tony efficiently moved to capture several angles with a few well-placed shots.

Straightening after his last photo, and busying himself so he wouldn't appear rude not to make eye contact, Tony tossed an "all yours, Ducky," to the older man as he reached for the flood lamp. Out from beside him, a worn hand rested firmly on his arm.

"Anthony," the doctor chided gently. "Is there something bothering you?"

"Me? Why would there be, Ducky?" Years in the making, the DiNozzo smile, assuring all who saw it that all was right with the world, lit up his face and let him meet Ducky's eyes. And, to his credit, he did see that it gave Ducky a bit of pause.

But they'd known each other too long now, and when uncertainty arose, Ducky's immediate assumption would be that something was bothering him. "Why indeed?" Ducky sighed. "My door is always open, Tony, if you _do_ find something is bothering you. I may not have a boat in my basement or bourbon in my storage jars," he added, as he knelt to adjust the body carefully for transfer, "but I don't have any Rules. Just in case you find any are ... in question."

DiNozzo blinked.

It was the cagey old doctor who refused to make eye contact now, knowing, Tony suspected, that his point had hit home and therefore was indeed found the source of his – whatever it was.

It didn't mean he was ready to face things, let alone put anything into words. To _anyone._

_...to be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made.

**A/N**: thanks to those of you who haven't run away from where this is going. Special thanks to those who PM'd or reviewed or pushed other buttons. Any comments, thoughts or observations, no matter what, are appreciated – they always help me know if what's here makes sense or is coming out the way it was intended.

**PRETENDING**

Done with his photos of the body and the immediate area, Tony turned to head back to the truck to drop off his camera and flood lamp, his attention focused on keeping his expression neutral as his brain was busy sorting through whatever it was that Ducky could have seen to warrant his comment.

_Rules. He mentioned __**rules**__, and no way was it just general rules, _Tony badgered himself_ – and those were __**Gibbs'**__ rules he had in mind, no question. And not just __**any**__ of Gibbs' rules, knowing Ducky. _It occurred to him that the ever-proper doctor had even ventured to make veiled comments in the past, as far back as...

"_Hey!_" McGee's voice cut through his mental chatter. _"Tony – "_ The note of exasperation confirmed that it was not the first time Tim had tried for his attention.

DiNozzo mentally head-slapped himself back to the present – nothing good would come of his being _that_ distracted at a crime scene. Changing course to come over to McGee, who had crouched with his flashlight by the corner of a low, decorative brick wall, he murmured a terse, "sorry," before turning the flood lamp toward the brick. "Whatcha got?"

Tim's eyes narrowed as he looked up to the SFA – no McNickname, no 'Probie," only a phrase of Gibbs-like terseness. "See this?" he began, filing away his observations of Tony for the present as he pointed out the area he wanted photographed. "Looks like some fibers and ... some scrapings, like maybe plastic or ... rubber? Maybe something bounced off the bricks..."

"Or someone," Tony agreed, "...running away." Tony lifted his camera's viewfinder for a shot. Snapping off a half dozen photos from several angles, he knelt close for a couple final shots, then stood to grab the flood lamp again. Pausing briefly before moving on to the truck, he tipped his chin to the fibers Tim now carefully collected into small plastic evidence bags. "Good catch, McGee."

He was making his way toward the truck before McGee could turn back to him to respond.

* * *

Ziva completed her interviews with the handful of students gathered around the quad, coming back out toward the open area where the body had been found. She saw Ducky and Palmer loading the midshipman's body onto their gurney, and watched as McGee called Tony over to look at something he'd found. Slowing to observe them, still several yards away, she saw that Tim had to had to try a few times to get Tony's attention.

She frowned.

Whatever had been off with the team since her return had seemed to come and go, some days better than others, until the past couple weeks, when things became slowly more strained where Tony was concerned. She was at a loss to understand it; she'd tried to determine what it was, if there was some slight he'd internalized or some cue she'd missed, and came up with nothing. She thought he'd been a bit more distant with her lately but tonight it there was no question: he'd been avoiding her gaze that night, avoiding_ her_. He was focused on his work, true, but that was not the way he normally worked. The old DiNozzo had his nose in everything at a crime scene; occasionally annoying but usually with a purpose – and as a result of his "nosiness" there was rarely anything he didn't know about the scene they'd found or the evidence collected, and rarely a question Gibbs asked that he couldn't answer as well as anyone. She had even made it her business to start being nosy too, on a call-out, as a result. It had served her and the team well.

_But this 'new' DiNozzo...?_

She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, wishing she could call back the heady feeling she'd had when they'd started out some four hours earlier, but the elusive comfort had disappeared with the niggling frustration she felt that things still refused to fall back into place. A part of her that could stand apart and observe recognized that they were all trying, each in his own way, and all of them worked to relax and let the team rebuild itself. But that same part wouldn't let her forget that it was _her_ doing that the team was not what it had been. Her connections, her department. Her _Mossad._

Her _fault_. Hers and her father's and Rivkin's and the whole of Mossad, their techniques and the history that brought them there.

_Her fault..._

As the familiar, slow thread of rage tried to gain its hold back on her, working at her like acid within her, burning at her, she closed her eyes and forced it back, drawing another deep breath and wondering, as she blew it out slowly, at how vast were the ripples in the pond disturbed by her father's orders, and how no matter what anyone did, or how anyone felt, the ripples could not be called back...

At the quiet sound of Gibbs' approach she opened her eyes quickly and turned, tamping down the insistent memory, refusing to let her recent history twist back into the too-immediate, too-familiar anger at whatever man in her life was crossing her path at the moment. She lifted a brief thanks upward that the nearest male was Gibbs, whose silent, strong demeanor helped remind her that not all the men in her life saw her only as a means to their end.

She pulled out her notes, ready to report the minimal information the students had provided. As always, he listened almost silently, nodding and asking only a couple brief questions before directing her to ride with McGee to take the evidence back to the lab. He told her to check everything in, head home, and he'd see her at 0900.

She figured that, if she were lucky, she might get in three hours of sleep before then.

When she turned back toward McGee, he was packing an evidence case with a last few, small evidence bags, and Tony... Tony was across the quad, standing near their truck, speaking with the Commandant, as Gibbs was headed in their direction.

Her frown flickered back across her brow as she watched her too-serious partner.

_...ripples in a pond ..._

* * *

When McGee announced that he was driving, Ziva had started to protest, he was certain of it – but almost immediately, she pulled back with an odd glint in her eye, agreeing crisply and pivoting smartly to walk around to the passenger side of the truck. From past experience he knew there'd be some sort of _quid pro quo_ as a result, and he had a sneaking suspicion it was coming soon. Steeling himself, McGee started up the truck and smoothly – and sedately – negotiated the nearly deserted streets of Annapolis, no sound coming from his partner. He made his way toward the highway, pulling onto the throughway leading back to the District, staring fixedly at the road ahead of him. He could feel it coming like a storm on a hot summer's day...

"McGee..."

_Here it comes.._

"Tony has been ... _different_ ... for – what? Three weeks now?"

He tried not to sigh audibly. "Ziva, I _still_ don't know what's bothering him, if that's what you're asking."

"But it is not _him_, McGee!" she turned in her seat to face him, "and if _we_ do not pursue it, who else will get to the bottom of what is bothering him?"

"Gibbs?" His response was sharper than he intended, so he added, "look – you know that Gibbs knows him better than anyone does. If there's something that needs to be done, well ... Gibbs will say something..."

"Gibbs? Are you kidding? He will not say anything..."

"Well, maybe not _say_ anything, but if his gut starts churning he'd do something."

The rode in silence for several minutes before Ziva tried another tack. "We are his _friends_, McGee, his _partners_. If there is something troubling Tony..."

"Ziva, I am not going to get in the middle of you two!"

The silence that followed for the next several moments was deafening, neither of them expecting Tim's outburst.

"Look, Ziva, I..."

"I did not mean..."

They managed to recover, and to stammer a protest simultaneously, which led to further silence, but only for the briefest moment before Ziva rallied. "McGee – I am sorry if it seemed... that I made you think that my only interest was Tony. It is the team that has me worried. We are not the same and it is my fault..."

"No, it's..."

"_Tim..."_ Her rare use of his first name stilled his words. "Thank you, but... the team is different because ... I am different. Maybe at first it was everything that happened, and what we all went through, but ... that time is now well past, and ... and I know that I am not entirely back to ... to ..."

"Back to normal?"

She flinched. He grimaced.

"I didn't mean you aren't _normal_..." He apologized for his inept effort to help. "I just meant..."

"Well, you are right, McGee; I am _not_ 'normal' ... or, let us agree that I am not acting as I normally would have ... last year." She chewed her lip, thoughtfully, a self-conscious act McGee had seen her do only since her return. "And ... let us agree ... that it all is a result of events out of our control," she offered gently, hoping he understood that she absolved all of their team, herself included, not something evident either before or after her summer of captivity. "And so ... let us then agree that we would all like things to be more ... _normal_ ... again. And if Tony is now moving away from normal, too, that is not good for the team."

McGee stole a glance from the road to look at her, and to his surprise saw her looking away from him, a sadness in her expression far too compatible with the increasing quiet their partner had been displaying. _Not just Tony feeling it, huh?_

"I've tried asking him about it, Ziva," he confessed, "a few times now. He either ignores me or says nothing's up or growls at me. So I don't know what to do other than to keep an eye on him."

"Maybe if you..."

But she broke off as he was shaking his head. "It's between you two, Ziva. You _know_ it is," he pressed, either the hour or his certainty or both pressing him on. When she slumped back in the seat, her frustration apparent, he added, "look, it's not like either of you planned it, or are _doing_ anything, or can change anything that happened in the past – _any_ of the past," he began, "but ... let's face it: it's nothing with Gibbs, and you and I are fine, right?"

She nodded, her guilty conscience flickering over brief memories of Tony's odd moments since she'd returned ... over hers ... over his seemingly childish backsliding into dating someone new every night, suddenly ... her mood swings from lashing out at him to being sullenly quiet to...

"I'm sure it's not anything between Tony and me; he handles that differently," McGee was saying. "So ... that leaves whatever it is between you and Tony."

"We have always fought, that is not it..." she defended quickly.

"You have always _flirted_." Again, Tim's too quick response surprised them both, but struck them both as surprisingly accurate, too. "Or ... you know. Even when you were having an actual spat – it was either that you were just squabbling like an old married couple, or ... or one of you was seeing someone else, and the other ... got territorial."

"McGee!"

Tim licked his lips, her reaction noted, but getting all this off his chest – some of which he hadn't even realized was _on_ his chest – felt more freeing than he'd have imagined. "You need to read some of the letters I've gotten about _Deep Six_, what readers said about Tommy and Lisa," he insisted, "it's ... it's weird and complicated and I'm not sure how healthy, but the two of you definitively had some _thing_ or connection they all saw, and ..."

"I thought that was all 'fiction,' McGee..." she tried deflecting.

"And I thought you two didn't believe that." He drew a breath, and dared, "look – even if it's all just platonic with you and Tony, only friends ... it's not the same anymore between you. And neither of you are happy about it and what's worse, it's making you each be even _more_ different. And because you don't want to admit you're different with just each other, or that it _matters_ that you are, you're different with _all_ of us."

Another silence fell around them. For Ziva, it was filled with thinking over what McGee had said and trying – unsuccessfully – to find fault with his logic. For McGee, it was wonder at his blurting out an observation he didn't know he had in him – and a growing recognition that he had just hit the nail on its head.

Ziva sat back again, unsure what to make of McGee's observation. She was aware that it was wrong to put him in the middle of his two partners, and unfair to use his good nature against him to pry information from him – but there was no one else who was so close to them both and so obviously insightful.

Chewing her lip again, unconsciously, she nodded, half to herself, and said quietly, "you are right, McGee, that you should not be put in the middle of ..." She trailed off, wholly clueless at this point what _this_ was that he would be in the middle of, but knew there was more to be learned before she could figure that out. "But ... if it is not wrong to ask ... will you tell me what it was like, for you, for the _team_ ... while I was gone?"

He frowned, not sure where she was going with it. "You're not thinking of leaving the team, are you?"

"No," she smiled softly, appreciating his tone of protest. "I know ... what my life was like, when we were separated for the summer. I would like to know ... about yours."

At his look back to her, challenging her, she relented, knowing there wasn't much reason to protest at this point.

"... I would like to know what your lives were like ... what _Tony's_ life was like ... and what happened to make him ... and all of you ... undertake a mission the Mossad would not..."

**_To be continued..._**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made.

**A/N**: all the favorites and follows are appreciated, but the reviews sent this far have been incredibly helpful as feedback - it's really hard to figure out what does and doesn't work without hearing from you. Would love to hear any and all reactions, no matter what. Thanks to all of you who have helped with that so far!

* * *

**PRETENDING**

Since he'd moved to D.C., Tony could probably count on the fingers of one hand the times that something had bothered him into silence, and each time he was grateful that his boss was the taciturn type. As opposed to Kate before, and Ziva – previously, at least – who would get one whiff of his mood and badger him senseless until he told them _why_, Gibbs was willing to let him stew until he was past it. At least he'd been so in the past; apparently he'd gotten over his sulk soon enough that Gibbs felt no need to intervene.

Until now.

They'd stayed behind after McGee and Ziva left for the Yard, alternately placating and interviewing the Academy's Commandant about the midshipman, his classmates and recent activities on campus; Gibbs continued with the administrator as the kid's coach and the dean showed up, each initially met and sized up by DiNozzo. After another thirty minutes they had a handful of lukewarm leads and a growing suspicion that what looked like an awkward suicide might have been just that.

Walking back to the Charger, Tony briefly summarized what he'd learned from the coach and the dean, and identified two students who might have information worth following up in the morning. By the time they reached the car he'd caught Gibbs up with what he'd learned. Gibbs added a couple directives for him as he pointed the car toward D.C.

And after they'd ridden in silence for nearly five minutes, it was Gibbs who first spoke.

"Vance told me he called you upstairs again last week."

Tony glanced at his boss briefly, guiltily, but not as guiltily as when they'd first had such discussion. He looked away again and shrugged. "Pensacola. It's a tiny office. I'd have to be my own probie. I mean, who'd want to work in Pensacola?"

Gibbs smirked lazily. "It's a lot closer to Panama City."

Tony snorted. "Well, yeah. Who wants to _work_ that close to Panama City, knowing it was right next door and you had to work?"

It was silent again, the tires humming on the pavement the only sound, until, even more uncharacteristically, it was Gibbs who resumed the conversation.

"Said it was the first time since he's been in the office that you gave it serious thought."

The silence was suddenly much less comfortable.

"Well, Boss ... you said it yourself. _Panama City..._" It was a lame answer, and they could both hear it. Tony fleetingly wondered at the Director's perceptiveness. _Apparently they didn't just hand him the directorship because he was a snappy dresser. _

But he never wondered at Gibbs' perceptiveness. He should have seen this coming.

Gibbs barely grunted. "And?"

Tony shrugged; he opened his mouth for a knee-jerk reply and found he didn't have the energy, so closed his mouth again.

Features as inscrutable as always, Gibbs nonetheless softened his tone just a little. "Anything I should know, DiNozzo?"

He paused, glancing over at his mentor. "About why I almost took it?"

"That," he drawled, eyes not leaving the highway. "And why you didn't." He paused again, and added, "and why Vance thinks you're still waffling enough to leave the offer open for another week or so."

"Oh." He took a moment, finding he really wanted to talk about it, but pretty sure Gibbs really didn't want to hear it all. He settled for the bare truth, with a side of cynicism. "Well... Rule 5 ... and Rule 5. Don't know about what rule Vance has in mind."

"The same one."

Gibbs waited. Even in this recent quiet from his second, Gibbs knew more would come if he simply waited. He could feel Tony's energy level rally very slightly, but from a frustration with circumstances more than anything. It seemed to be another symptom of whatever had been going on with DiNozzo lately, which in turn raised another twinge in his gut, telling him this was more than just a passing few weeks off-kilter for him. DiNozzo appeared to be looking for something, maybe weighing his options – looking for something elusive, but important to him.

As he expected, he didn't have all that long to wait.

"Don't waste good." DiNozzo's voice was as quiet as the hum of the tires. "I could never do as well as this team."

Gibbs considered. "That's what kept you here before," he began. Granted, things had been off for his SFA for a long time, but given the events of the past year, it wasn't unexpected. But they'd remained off kilter for DiNozzo even after Ziva had been rescued. No one talked about it, and, maybe for too long, he'd hoped things would resolve on their own. "Why this time?" When Tony didn't respond right away, he prompted, "the team?"

He could sense Tony stiffen slightly, confirming Gibbs' hunch that it was all more of the same.

"I was asked to choose, DiNozzo. _Ziva_ asked me to choose. You know that. I chose you."

Again, there was a long pause before Tony replied. "I know, Boss. But no one is asking you to choose now. Just ... things change. And this time ... maybe the team isn't going to be fixed if we don't change, too. Of all of us, I'm best equipped to move on. McGee won't be long behind me, and will have a lot of options. Ziva ..." He paused, swallowed, and pressed, "Ziva needs to get her balance with everything that's changed for her. I get that. She trusts you. She relies on you. She needs you while she herself back. She isn't..."

When DiNozzo stopped abruptly, Gibbs waited again, but knew no more was coming. He also knew he needed Tony to finish his thought. "Isn't what?" The silence was too long, more avoidance than thought gathering. "Isn't what, DiNozzo?"

"Isn't ... so angry, with you. Doesn't let her anger make her ... dismissive, or aggressive. Isn't as likely to let her anger mess with her alertness at a crime scene, or her caution in the field."

Gibbs frowned. "Still?"

"Not as much, but... yeah. Sometimes. It should be over by now, I'd think. If any remains..." Tony paused, staring out into the darkened city as it rolled by. "Maybe it's not good for the team that I stick around."

It was Gibbs' turn to brood over Tony's words. Finally, he asked, "so it's her anger, and what it may do in the field ... you telling me that's the only thing at play here, DiNozzo?"

Tony felt the twist in his gut, the pain he felt with Ziva's venom that had nothing to do with her response in the field. He swallowed, reminded himself of Rule 12 and all that Gibbs had meant to him, and spoke as evenly as he could. "Isn't that enough?"

* * *

Ziva stood by as the evidence room's night shift probie logged in the items they'd brought in. McGee had thought she was just being nice when she offered to oversee the evidence transfer so he could start on the Academy's records download and therefore head home a bit sooner, but she wanted the solitude to mull over what he'd said on the drive back.

_What he'd said, and how he'd said it..._

The discussion had left her troubled, though she would not let him see it. McGee had been testy when she raised the issue, and she assumed at first it was directed at Tony, as her own frustration had been. After all, Tony was being decidedly _un-_Tony, and it was affecting the team; why wouldn't McGee be irritated with him just as she'd been?

_But he wasn't. And he acknowledged that the team was off and mentioned trying to find out what was bothering their partner. He was worried about DiNozzo. But ... it wasn't Tony who was different. Or, yes, he __**was**__, but it hadn't started with him – Tim intimated that it started with __**them**__, with Tony and her, and well before she'd been captured, but involving her captivity far more than she suspected._..

And now she needed time, and time alone, to sort it all through.

The now-familiar twinge of guilt and regret she'd been feeling recently, following almost every flare of irritation she felt with the recently inexplicable DiNozzo, settled back in her thoughts. They'd had a hell of a year, and even if Tony had been out of line or annoying back then, it was her presence that brought Mossad, and her father, and even Michael, by extension, into the lives of the team. Even with all that had happened, the team had given her the benefit of the doubt – and, even though Eli had to know where she was, it was _they_ who found her. Maybe Americans were more like their cowboy movies than they realized.

But to Ziva's complete surprise, she discovered on the ride back that, until tonight, McGee had been holding in years' worth of reflection and opinion about Tony and her, and from his careful words – and heaps of sub-text – it was clear that whatever was on Tony's mind now, whatever had him so grouchy or angry or whatever it was, was bound up with her, and apparently bound up with _them_, and their strange, close, non-relationship relationship.

_But – why were things so different __**now**__?_

It didn't make sense. She was back, she was no longer Mossad; she was working to become a journeyman agent of NCIS, not just a liaison. _Was that it?_ Admittedly, she was still fighting her mercurial feelings, but she was better than before, she was sure, less likely to snark or become suddenly angry – which usually was directed at Tony, before and still – so if he hadn't reacted before, he wouldn't now ...

_...would he?_

She initialed the last evidence bag, her thoughts still more on Tony than on the agent manning the evidence room. Tony always bounced back. He knew she had been fighting the remnants of her captivity; he'd let her know he understood. He – and the others – had given her leeway, and had it had helped. They had never spoken about events, before ... about Michael's death and Tony's injury, about her father's attempt to put everything on Tony, about her confrontation of first Tony and then Gibbs as she lashed out, trying to force the issue of just whom she could trust...

She blinked, freezing for a moment._ That's what it was, wasn't it? Daring them to be just like Michael and her father, seeking her out only to use her? What had either of them ever done to make her think that's what they saw in her?_

She shook herself to walk back up to the squad room, hoping that McGee had actually finished his work and gone on home, not ready to face his kind and too-sympathetic gaze again just yet. He had blurted out his observations of the summer, of the time she'd been gone, then looked to her as if he'd just delivered the worst news he could imagine. It was not so bad, she reflected at first; yes, it was unfortunate they'd been told she was dead, but it had all been cleared up with their appearance in Somalia...

"_... Tony was ... he was ..."_ McGee, the writer, had struggled for words. _"He was anything but Tony. He was like a robot, just going through the motions, only about half of what was going on around him sinking in. Gibbs was ready to bench him if it had been much longer."_

All that in response to the news she was dead. What was he thinking, to have such a reaction?

"_But then he went the other way and he was driven and intense about finding Saleem to destroy him. Of course, he made it all sound rational, preventing further terrorism, but he was ready to die to make it happen. I'm pretty sure that if he'd gone alone he wouldn't have bothered to plan a retreat."_

Tony? She found it so hard to imagine Tony with bloodlust in his eyes. It confused and rattled her, more so than anything else Tim had said. Tim was both honest and perceptive. If he saw it, if he told her that was what happened, it must have been so. Yet the Tony who appeared before her eyes when the hood was removed was the same, lackadaisical, goofball Tony, drugged to the eyeballs with Saleem's truth serum...

_...and who said he couldn't live without her._

Ziva suddenly skirted the elevator to climb the stairs, slowly and silently, as her thoughts spun even faster. Trying to organize all of what she knew before with what she'd just heard and seen an hour ago from McGee, she felt a sense of claustrophobia not unlike what she'd felt those first days after Michael died, when she realized that so much of what she thought she knew was wrong, when so many of the genuine feelings Michael or her father may have had for her were caught up in the bigger game of using her and her position at NCIS in their assignments ... when she thought that any feelings Tony might have displayed for her were belied by his suspicions and near-accusations... when she knew, deep down, but could not then face the fact that Tony ... and Gibbs, and Vance ... were right about Mossad's mission, and her father, and Michael.

_...when she knew that she had been forced into choosing between her family and her friends, between her agency and her host service, even between Israel and the US, and knew now that without even a thought she'd fallen back into her training and the familiar and her allegiance with her home, exactly what she'd been expected – and conditioned – to do time and time again for Mossad. _

Her life now, at this very moment, was the result of exactly the same training, all starting years ago when, in a bitter, unexpected outcome, she'd shot Ari because it was the logical result of her training in the circumstances presented. Last year, she had become secretive and protective of Michael and Mossad's role in events, long before she'd seen it for what it was. The end result of _that_ was Michael's death and a failed mission – one that, rather than regrouping to try another day, she insisted on a kamikaze-style attack that should have killed her too, that she hoped down deep would kill her too – a suicide attempt thwarted with the arrival of Tony and Tim and Gibbs...

Ziva stopped midway up the stairs and smacked the wall enough to guarantee a bruise on the heel of her hand for the morning, biting her lip to avoid yelling her anger and frustration and pain at the sudden clarity of her role in things, the strength of her training and ... _brainwashing ... _into being the predictable little weapon inserted by Mossad – by her _father_ – to use as smoothly as she would the back-up weapon at her ankle.

_Did she have a 'trigger' word, too? Like in Tony's movies, did she become a killing machine or embedded spy when a certain phrase or object was dropped in front of her?_

Overcome by the sudden realization of just what she'd been to them all, Ziva sat on a step, her forehead in her hands. _All those years of feeling strong and independent and capable..._ The truth of her conditioning might not be as dramatic as in the movies, but in her life she had reacted almost as readily. She burned in anger at both how she'd been used and her own, long denial of it, and wondered what might have happened last year if she had recognized the source of her reactions and suspicions sooner. Would Michael have survived? Would she have been so ready to force Gibbs to leave her in Israel?

_...would she have driven this wedge between her and Tony, the wedge that Tim seemed to think led to whatever is going on with him now? _

Glancing at her watch, she got to her feet again suddenly and ran up the rest of the stairs. She didn't know if Tony would be coming back here or simply going home; she knew that tracking him down at 5 AM to confront him about it all was irrational, but she wanted to do so while she remained as clear on this as she was. She had started to admit that her own 'gut' was telling her that things were going badly with Tony, and that if she didn't try to fix what had been broken by Mossad, with her help, the pieces might become too scattered and too far beyond repair to put back together again...

**...to be continued...**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made.**

**A/N: **Confession (and spoiler) time: I was pretty angry at the TIVA scene in the S10 finale that everyone's talking about. I really, really hope I'm wrong, but I saw it as Ziva throwing a bucket of ice water on Tony (and, therefore, on TIVA). I'm sure it's TPTB toying with us, and I'm trying not to let my reaction to _that_ color this story. I know this will have at least a hopeful ending (if not "happy" but we'll see! ']) (like any of mine don't – I'm so predictable with these two) but still – just FYI that the writer may be suddenly more grumbly than usual.

**A/N #2:** 5/21/13: Many thanks to those of you reviewing with your thoughts about the finale – you're really all helping to make me feel better about things! I've watched it again and see a lot of what has given a lot of people hope, and feel about 65% better – will just have to watch it a third time to make things right with the world. :}

Am getting replies out to you who've reviewed, but wanted to say publicly that I appreciate all the views expressed about what the finale had for us – they've helped a lot! Thanks, everyone!

Would love any and all comments, etc – remember I love both these guys, even if they may be a bit testy in this chapter... :D Let me know what you think!

* * *

**PRETENDING**

When Ziva rounded the corner toward the squadroom, she found it empty and nearly silent – McGee must have finished up and left to get some sleep, as she'd hoped, and if Gibbs and Tony had come back to the Yard before heading home themselves, there was no sign of either yet. She rounded Gibbs' desk to peer in his wastebasket, thinking a discarded coffee cup might tell the tale. Seeing none, she straightened, thoughts still urging her on to do _something_, and as she turned toward her own desk, her eyes fell on the black, rounded blob halfway behind Tony's desk.

_His gear._

None of them left the Yard for the night without their backpacks, in case they got called out straight from home. Tony's bag, _here_, meant he was in the building. But his computer was off, and his chair pushed in as he typically did at the end of the day, close up under the desk and not haphazardly abandoned, as he would mid-project.

So...?

He wasn't in Evidence, as she was just there; he wasn't anywhere around the Squad Room, or she'd hear him. So ... Autopsy? Maybe Ducky or Palmer was still there. Probably not Abby's lab, unless Gibbs and he had found something they wanted her to process immediately, and she was already here. Ziva turned back to the stairs, impatient enough not to bother with the elevator, and after trips to Autopsy and the Lab, both empty, and after a run by Evidence again and even by the gym, Ziva hadn't found him.

Eyes narrowing, she thought for a moment, then spun and strode off down another hall.

* * *

"Uh ... yeah, Agent David, still shows him here," the guard looked at his computer screen, "unless..." The older man's eyes met hers, with a small twinkle. "Y'all figured out a way to beat the Director's new security system, have ya?"

She found a smile for the guard, despite her agitation. "Technology is not so much Tony's specialty, more McGee's," she returned. "Are you able to tell me where he is?"

"Mmm..." The guard scanned the bank of monitors. "Don't see him now, but he got here not too long after you checked in, and I think I saw him maybe five 'r ten minutes ago, heading down to the garage."

She frowned. "But not returning?"

He shook his head. "I may have just missed him, though I haven't seen him on any of the other monitors."

"Thank you," Ziva nodded and mustered another smile, knowing she'd reached the end of the man's help. Circling around to head toward the garage, she took another set of stairs, her agitation quieted slightly by the delay, her search and her trotting up and down the stairs trying to find him. She now felt some curiosity adding to her search for him, wondering what could have drawn her partner to the garage instead of his own bed, given the hour and how soon Gibbs expected them back in. Some 'hot' car pulled in from another case? Some evidence he and Gibbs discovered after she left with McGee?

She made it to the bottom of the stairs and paused before barging in, regaining focus. Despite her sudden, insistent need to have Tony understand what had been going on with her, and her recognition that things were off with the two of them – and the team as a whole – because things had been off with _her,_ she also realized she didn't know how to express to him what she just barely had started to fully grasp herself. Tony had accepted her apology before, about Israel and Michael, but they hadn't really discussed things – and she was now glad they had not, since she was still working through so much of everything in her head.

_Maybe if I simply tell him I know I have been off and that I have not been myself – maybe ask for his patience and more time. Would it even make sense to him that I have to figure out what happened with my father and Michael, over the years, before I can figure out what's going on with him?_

Ziva pushed through the heavy door and stepped into the large, open room, seeing it largely empty other than their crime scene truck. And it was open; the cab's small interior light was on, as well as the overhead light in the back, and she could hear the muted sounds of someone moving around inside, with a sudden soft 'thunk' of something falling into – what, a trash can?

He was ... _cleaning out the truck?_

_Now?_ A task he usually took great glee in ordering the probationary agents to do when he could? Especially now, when any sleep they could get would be essential to get through the day? She shook her head as she strode across the garage and rounded the truck to face him. She wanted to get things said before she lost her focus, but his crazy, sudden obsession with cleaning at 5 AM was not going to make it easy.

* * *

Tony worked methodically as he went through the drawers and cabinets of the truck, listing things to be replenished and working to keep his writing legible so he could hand his list off to one of the probies to restock their supplies. The garage at this hour was quiet, dark – like his mood – and though he was exhausted he couldn't imagine being able to unwind from a crime scene to sleep, just like that. He hoped that the repetitive, boring task of prepping the truck would let him burn off a bit of the energy raised by working the case and discussing their next actions with Gibbs on the way back, so when he headed home and fell into bed he wouldn't just stare at the ceiling.

He'd been at it for about fifteen minutes, and had just moved up to the cab to clean out their trash, when he heard her speak.

"So you are still here. What are you doing, Tony?"

In his periphery, he saw Ziva framed in the open cab door, and felt himself grit his teeth, unconsciously. Trying to tell himself that it was unreasonable to be irritated at her just for showing up, he didn't stop working or look at her as he replied. "Pretty much what it looks like, _Zee-vah_ – cleaning out the truck."

"I thought you said that was probie work, yes? It could not wait for you to have Dornegut do it?"

He didn't break the rhythm of his cleaning, reaching down into the far recesses of the dashboard where it met the window, suddenly on a mission to clean out every stray fry –_ or falafel _– that made its way there from someone's dinner. "Paying homage to the gods of irony, Ziva. We're on call all weekend. If the truck is gassed and clean and restocked, we won't be needing it, and someone else will get the benefit of all my hard work. Besides," his voice dropped only slightly as he added, "if we don't stock it ourselves, every once in a while, with what we need, then how will the probies know what a well-equipped truck has in it?"

She started to ask him if he really did this occasionally or if it was simply an excuse to do – well, to do whatever it was he was doing here instead of sleeping.

_This was crazy, even for him_.

It was after 0500; they were on call after a long week and both should be home getting whatever sleep they could before they had to start it all again. _She_ should be going and leave him to his work. If Tony wanted to spend those hours cleaning out the truck, that was his choice. There was no rule, written or Gibbs' or otherwise, that said a partner had to get her partner's back in the evidence garage, cleaning out a truck.

...but she was losing enough focus as it was, had _lost_ focus, and found herself falling back into the same patterns she had with him lately, ready to defend herself against everything he did or did not do, not wanting to ever again be lulled into the whims of someone close to her...

Ziva took a deep breath and reminded herself of why she'd been so driven to see him. She'd registered that he spoke tersely, but it was a voice he'd used with her before, the sound of it telling her he was irritated. At the work – or at her? She tried, "I didn't realize you'd be coming back here. I thought you'd just go home."

No response.

"I would have helped, if you'd asked," she added. Knowing that could sound as odd to him as it did to her, she shifted again, uncomfortably, not really expecting an answer to that if he didn't answer her before. "Do you need..."

"Nope. Done." He jerked open the driver's side door and got out, slamming it behind him, and walked around to where she stood, grabbing and rolling the large trash bin to the side.

She frowned, frustrated at the conversation. She had to remind herself they were both exhausted and that alone was a reason not to push things, but clearly neither of them were sleepy, and as he had been at the crime scene, Tony was both testy and evasive.

_No – it was more than that,_ she decided as she watched him stalk back to the truck's back bay to close an open cabinet and slam the back doors shut. More like...

"...are you _mad_ at me?" Ziva asked, the slight sound of incredulity in her voice.

"No. And I'm not 'jealous," either." He muttered the afterthought under his breath, a new, bitter edge in his voice as he worked.

"I did not say..."

"Well, you usually do. Or at least you used to; any time I was anything but goofy old Tony, any time I expressed any concern or frustration or question, you'd ask if I was _jealous._" He shook his head, still wondering where it had come from, those times she'd thrown that at him. "Usually when you asked, that was about the last thing I was feeling..."

Ziva felt a chill at the way things were going. She thought she knew all of Tony's moods, and had relied on the fact that they had fought and forgiven each other over the years for transgressions of many sorts. But this bitterness was new, and she sensed it was not something to belittle – or ignore. With a twinge of frustration and hurt, she swallowed her need to explain her epiphany to the one person she hoped would understand, and said quietly, "So ... you _are_ ... something..."

"I guess we have to be_ something_ unless we're asleep or dead," he snapped, sarcastically, then stopped moving, suddenly; his eyes closed and he drew a deep breath. "Look," his eyes opened again, and he glanced at her, briefly. "I didn't mean that. I didn't want to _sound_ like that. I didn't want to do – _this_ – which is why I came down to clean, so people would think I'd left already."

"Do... _what?_ Talk?"

"_This_," he gestured between them, "this – _us_. Whatever _this_ is, this ... non-communication. And don't tell me you didn't know exactly what I mean."

"Yes, Tony – I think I do," she nodded. "It's ... why I was looking for you; this ... _lack_ of communication, lately." She spoke softly, but felt her hopes rising, since he'd opened the door for this discussion. "I know ... we _all_ know ... that things have not been the same since I came back, that things have been ... awkward at best, or ..." She looked up to gauge his response and found him as unreadable as he'd been since she'd confronted him, his mask firmly in place. Not letting that daunt her, she continued, "and I ... well, just this evening, I realized how much of that _I_ brought back with me. I mean, I knew that it was my absence and my return that changed things, for the team, but I ... I hadn't really understood how much my ... experiences, not just with Saleem, but with Michael and my father ... affected me. Affected the _team._ And that's it, Tony, I wanted to let you know that I see it now, and I will work to get back to where I was before. I want to be the same Ziva who was a part..."

"You can't be the same," he interrupted harshly.

Blinking, his unexpected words as surprising as a slap, Ziva began to voice a reply, her confusion at what exactly he meant slowing her response, but he went on as if she were silent.

"You _can't_ be the same, Ziva! _I'm_ not the same, and between the two of us, you've had a whole lot more life-altering events happen to you since you started here than I have." He saw the immediate, though slight, flicker of hurt and defensiveness in her eyes, but his emotions were running too high to be checked by the response he knew he'd see. "Why do you insist on pretending we're still the same ol' Ziva and Tony who met a handful of hours after Kate was killed?"

He hadn't needed to say it that way; there were at least a dozen euphemistic ways to point out the timing of their first meeting. She couldn't know how important the timing was to him; how it meant something to him that _she_ must have meant something to him, getting under his skin while he was in the throes of immediate grief and anger and exhaustion. Even though she couldn't fully appreciate their significance, he used those words as a reminder to himself, a tribute, in a way, to her entrance into his life and the signs with it that theirs would never be an easy partnership.

He also knew that of all the ways he might say it, it would likely sting the most. _And isn't that just them.._

"We are not the same," she managed, stoically, "but we did not part ways last summer as 'the same ol' Ziva and Tony who met' then, either." She took a step closer, within inches of him, and, forcing her own emotions aside until Tony's more immediate ones were calmed, looked up to ask, "who are you mad at, Tony? At me? At Michael and my father? At someone else?"

He met her eyes, finally, and Ziva saw him looking for something that he apparently couldn't find. The intensity broke after a moment, though, and the tension left his shoulders as he shook his head.

"Me," he said softly as he turned to go. "Just me."

He'd made it half way across the garage before she found her voice. "Tony – wait; we can't just..."

"Ziva – go home," he said softly, but in a tone that was almost Gibbsian in its finality. "We have a couple hours before we need to get back to work, and nothing will be solved with either the case or with us when we're running on fumes."

She stood, unmoving, as his steps resumed and sounded further and further away, up the stairs. Whatever she'd thought she would say when she'd started out looking for him, things now felt more damaged and convoluted than ever. He was angry, he was hiding ... he was taking blame. None of that could be good.

"_...nothing will be solved with either the case ... __**or with us ...**__"_

The way he'd said those words made her certain that they _would_ have to face things, that this would not be like all the times they ignored the slights and jabs from the other, moving on through the rockier times in between the good. This time they might need to actually decide what _"this"_ – between them – was, and the anger Tony had displayed, both recently and just now – made her fear that this time, what used to bend had now broken...

**...to be continued...**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made.**

**A/N:** thanks to everyone who is still coming back for more, especially those of you taking the time to review. It really does help; it's the only way I have a clue about whether these stories have anything to 'em or not. I suck at assessing my own stuff, so I appreciate _every_ sincere comment, whether fuzzy or barbed - really! Especially like here, when the story's taking off without me, it helps to know what people think.

And to all of you who reviewed last time to offer your more hopeful take on the finale – you guys are great! If so many find hope still there, who am I to be worried?

PRETENDING

* * *

It was a worn but still-frequently repeated joke among the team that Tony DiNozzo was often late to work in the morning, but in truth, more often he was a few minutes early. Once in a while he even beat the others in, right behind Gibbs. Since they all existed within Gibbs' expectation of rigid, regular punctuality, it really was fairly unusual for Tony to be late, and when he was, it was usually explainable by an insanely busy week or a rough time with a suspect, and rarely more than ten minutes at that.

So given their 'discussion' earlier that morning, Ziva had started watching the time when it got to be 0910, then 0915, and still no DiNozzo. The more time passed, the more often she found her eyes flicking to the lower right corner of her computer to check it. By the time 0940 rolled around, Gibbs stood and growled something about getting coffee, and was almost out of the bullpen when he yelled over his shoulder, "McGee – find out where the hell DiNozzo is."

"On it, B..."

"_Gibbs – "_

The Director's voice rang out over the squadroom and stopped a visibly irritated Bossman from making his coffee run. Despite the pending offer for Pensacola and DiNozzo's failure to appear or call in yet, Gibbs' gut wasn't twisting any more than it had been the past couple weeks where Tony was concerned. DiNozzo's being late merely annoyed him, not yet diluted by concern about what was keeping his second this time. Turning to face Vance, Gibbs steeled himself not to let the Director just piss him off even more – and saw Vance staring back at him with an expression somewhere between irritation of his own and curiosity, maybe even with a little humor mixed in. "When you _find_ him – I'd like a word."

Gibbs immediately wondered if his gut had missed something. _What was DiNozzo up to now? Pensacola? Some other assignment? _Gibbs didn't like having _anyone_ get in between him and his agents, even if it was _everyone's_ boss, especially when the man was making offers to his SFA that might break up his team and leave him without the only agent he'd actually anointed as a senior field agent. "Something I need to know about, _Director?_" He knew better than to worry until it was time to worry, but he couldn't help but twist the title around a little to poke the man a bit. Leon was a good guy but chain of command was there for a reason, especially with _his_ team.

"Something _I_ need to know about," the Director grunted. "Or maybe Probationary Agent David needs to know about."

Gibbs' gut may have been quiet, but Ziva's had been churning more insistently the later Tony was, and her nerves had crackled with Gibbs' bellow to McGee to find their missing partner. She'd been trying to look busy and disinterested when Vance interrupted Gibbs' coffee run, but at the first mention of Tony's name her head popped up, and she watched, worry now rumbling more insistently and drawing her brow into a frown. When Vance brought up _her_ name, too, her mouth went dry.

McGee's eyes darted to her in question; she shook her head in a surprised, wide-eyed denial. Gibbs caught both with a quick glance, and looked back to the Director, his lifted eyebrow Gibbs-speak for "well?"

"Agent DiNozzo has had a busy morning – seems he called the Israeli Embassy a little while ago. He had a ten minute conversation with Officer Bashan before signing off."

"From here?" Gibbs frowned. Without realizing she did so, Ziva stood slowly, blinking slightly at Vance's words, and Tim looked back at her, feeling some of her worry rubbing off on him.

"No, his cell. Security in MTAC got a rumble when an NCIS employee's number called one of their flagged numbers, given it belongs to the highest ranking Mossad officer in place in the States. They believe that the call was of a ..._ personal_... nature, but they're saving the transmission to copy if it's needed." He looked at Ziva. "Agent David, do you have any information as to ..."

The elevator dinged.

"... _why_ Agent DiNozzo would have called Offi...?"

The silver doors opened, and the subject of all the speculation hurried into the bullpen, head down, balancing a large coffee carrier and a snowy white, old-fashioned bakery box tied with string. He was dressed in jeans and a untucked polo, hair a bit awry, as if he'd run low on whatever he usually used to tame it, and, as he glanced up to see the scene before him – Vance standing on the landing, looking almost imperious, both Gibbs and Ziva on their feet – he wasn't sure what was up, but the way they all stared at him, he suspected he was the reason for their expressions. Gibbs looked like he was ready to hunt bear, Tim was tense and waiting, and Ziva – Ziva was the least like herself, wide eyed and anxious.

"Sorry, Boss," he said low, out of habit, as he slunk by the former gunny and crossed to his desk to put down his load. "It was a late night for everyone, so ... I got coffee. New place. Took longer than I thought."

He dropped his backpack and set to moving things around on his desk, putting the bakery box to the side, lifting the similar-sized brown box by its handle and turning back to Gibbs, nodding toward it with his head, "refills, Boss – a whole 'nother pot. This stuff's the good stuff, too – you'll like it." He put the refill box down and grabbed two of the cups he'd brought, already full, handing one to Gibbs and another to Ziva quickly, not so much unaware of the stunned looks following his movements as hoping that if he didn't acknowledge them, they'd melt away. He took it as a positive sign that Gibbs hadn't exploded yet or headslapped him back into the elevator and out the door.

In fact, Gibbs was taking a sip from the proffered cup, and his expression changed from irritation to almost pleasant surprise. "Not bad, DiNozzo."

"See?" Tony's smile was not his usual beam, but it was more DiNozzo than he'd been the day before, and carried a definite stamp of his relief that Gibbs had absolved him of being late and – whatever else all this was. "Director, would you like some?" Tony spoke as he handed Tim a coffee, silently pointing out the cream and sugar he'd brought along with the rest. "I didn't expect you here on a Sunday morning, but you can have this, and I'll get another cup from do..."

"What I'd _like_, Agent DiNozzo, is an explanation for your call to Mossad this morning."

Ziva's eyes cut from Tony, to the Director, and back to Tony in a heartbeat. _What __**possibly**__ had been said between them in the garage this morning,_ she wondered worriedly,_ that would cause him to call..._

"I didn't call ... oh." DiNozzo paused, and, getting it, may have reddened slightly. "I guess I did. But I wasn't calling because he's Mossad, just looking for some information, about..." He paused, frowning, then asked, "wait – how did you know?"

He looked away from the Director to fix a questioning glance at McGee, who shook his head and mouthed, "not me..."

"We are a federal agency and as Mossad is a foreign intelligence service, it's one of those things we keep an eye on," Vance's sarcasm was fueled by his irritation. "And you can imagine my interest in wanting to know why one of my agents is telephoning the Israeli Embassy to speak with Mossad's senior agent in place!"

Tony most definitely reddened at that, and his demeanor quieted. "Sorry, Director. It was ..." For the first time since his arrival, he glanced over to make eye contact with Ziva for the barest moment, his eyes softly apologetic, before turning back to the Director. "Sir... I was kind of a jackass to Agent David earlier this morning, when we got back from Annapolis." He paused, trying not to look over to see if her agreement would be too overt. "I wanted to bring a peace offering, and thought Officer Bashan could help."

At that, Tony lifted the bakery box first to show the Director, then carried it over to Ziva, who, even more surprised than before, managed to school her features while blinking away her relief – and the sting in her eyes. "I wanted something ... appropriate, and he's known her a long time." Tony explained. "Open it," he said to her. Turning back to Vance with a weak attempt at humor, he smiled, "I brought enough for everyone, Sir."

Ziva pulled off the string and opened the box to find it packed with dozens of rugelach, honey cookies, poppyseed cakes, hamentashen, and other delights, both seasonal and non, from the bakery she was sure that Bashan would have recommended not far from the Embassy. Vance griped, "you mean to tell me you called the Embassy for ..."

"I was pretty sure he'd know where to get the best Israeli cookies and pastries in town," he shrugged again, "and what her favorites might be. I wasn't thinking of him being Mossad. He and I talked several times after that hit in Georgetown, before your time here, Sir. And you were on the call when he contacted me after we got back last September." Even though Vance's initial glare of disbelief thawed a bit – his was almost as effective as Gibbs' was, Tony noted – he added, "whatever you need me to write up, Director, I will. I was just thinking of him as an acquaintance who would know what I needed, I guess. Maybe it was sleep deprivation." The sympathy card might help him a little here, given their schedule lately, and he wasn't above using it. More than anything, though, as he spoke, Tony kept his peripheral awareness locked on Gibbs, who had relaxed from his angry posture and seemed, if anything, gruffly amused.

_He stated to believe that he just might skate again this time._

Vance snorted, and rolled his eyes. "Close your case first, and we'll talk." He turned to head back upstairs; the team relaxed.

_Crisis averted_. Tony let out a little sigh of relief, causing Tim to snort softly as he felt his shoulders relax, and he shook his head. "Good goin,' Tony," he murmured. He saw DiNozzo nod distractedly and knew his partner wasn't sure if he meant the cookies or his latest antics.

As Gibbs came back around to his desk with his coffee, Ziva looked back to the box of sweet-smelling goodies, touched deeply, and suddenly felt hopeful with what Tony had done for her. Looking up to him, expecting to see him watching her, waiting for a reaction to his peace offering and maybe even taking a bow as he would normally, she was concerned – and a little hurt – to see him standing at his desk, idly shifting through some of the things on his desk, again avoiding eye contact with her.

"These are wonderful, Tony," she said softly, "thank you. Try some?"

"Nah, you go ahead – maybe McGee or Gibbs would like 'em, too. We can all use the sugar."

Despite his thoughtful surprise – delicacies from Israel, no less – and his efforts to get them, he would not look at her and still felt – distant. Glancing over to Tim to see him watching her watching Tony, concern in his expression, Ziva swallowed hard and found a smile for him, as reassuring as she could make it. Rattled by not only Tony's distance but his turning down anything from a bakery, Ziva managed to nod and offer the box around, identifying the treats from her homeland as she did. She hoped she sounded less upended than she felt.

"Assuming you all are sufficiently experienced agents to chew and think at the same time," Gibbs drawled, helping himself to a rugelach while nodding to the documents displayed on the screen beside McGee, "whadda we got?"

He couldn't help but notice that at least one of his three agents seemed relieved to be getting back to business. As Tony excused himself briefly – "two seconds, Boss" – to take coffee and separate sacks of cookies downstairs to their lab and autopsy team members, Gibbs wondered, for the second time in as many days, if his just waiting things out with whatever had been bothering Tony had not been the best solution for his team this time.

* * *

As he headed toward Abby's lab, Tony berated himself for managing to make an awkward situation even worse. His little peace offering would have been weird enough, since he hadn't made a habit of bringing in food for the team like that, but he decided he had to bring it in for everyone, not just for Ziva. Although he knew he'd been dead wrong to go off at her as he had, given all she'd been through, all that must have happened in Somalia and everything before, it didn't change his own hurt and lost hope for anything they might have had, and he couldn't stop thinking that it might be best to just pull the plug on things here. He needed to apologize for being out of line with her and forgetting all she'd been through, but that was all he could manage with her for now. He wasn't ready to discuss anything else yet; he couldn't – not until he knew what he was going to do. Plus, he'd been almost as surly to McGee and even Gibbs lately as he'd been to Ziva, and he wanted his apology to include them, too.

_Yeah. Not awkward enough for ya yet, DiNozzo? Let's make it worse..._

His innocent phone call to Bashan, who had known Ziva since she was a toddler and so would certainly know where to find the pastries she'd like, had set off national security alarms and sent up the Bat Signal to the Director's office. Vance's announcing his lapse to the to the squadroom made it all just _perfect_. Tony grimaced again at the thought. He'd been off his game enough to think calling Bashan would be like calling anyone else, and he'd probably pay for it by having to fill out the six-page contact report for initiating a conversation with a foreign intelligence operative without directions from his agency to do so.

He sighed._ More penance. Nice job, Anthony..._

Abby wasn't in her lab when he arrived, so he left the small sack he'd brought for her and beat a hasty retreat. Other than his turn for lunch, his bringing in food for everyone was rare enough – had he done it before, ever? – that he didn't think he could escape without an Abby-inquisition, so missing her at the moment was a relief.

But both Ducky and Jimmy were mid-autopsy of the midshipman when the pneumatic doors opened for him, both elbow deep in their work and nearly as deep in conversation – one that ended suspiciously abruptly on his arrival. He pretended to ignore it and forced a smile.

"Breakfast? Coffee and sugar to rev your engines."

"Why, how kind of you, Anthony," Ducky blinked up at him with a warm smile. "A welcome break after our recent long hours."

Tony smiled back and walked over to leave his treats on Ducky's desk at the offered thanks, but turning then and coming closer to the autopsy table, he saw that the pair were assessing him closely – Ducky's eyes, as concerned and kind and inquisitive as they'd been at the Academy, and Palmer – guileless, innocent Palmer – looked at him in concern.

He cringed a little inside. It was nice to know that they cared, but he just wanted to get past all this and get back to work – no drama, no life beyond the squadroom, no wandering thoughts. He had too much on his mind – and too pressing a decision to make, soon – to be worried about their worry.

_Of course, if his call to Bashan had changed Vance's mind about his offer for his own team in Pensacola – well, a decision made for him was easier than making it himself. Great going, DiNozzo._

"You're feeling a bit more yourself this morning, are you, Anthony?" The doctor pried, gently.

_Not even close._

"Never was anyone else, Ducky," he tried a charming grin. "Unless you have anything for us yet, gotta go – I was late as it is, and the coffee's good, but it will distract Gibbs for only so long."

"Soon, but not quite yet," Ducky pulled off a glove, "and maybe a bit longer than that, as I believe I'll have a bit of that coffee before it gets cold, and will take a look to see what delicacies you've brought us." As he walked into the other room to wash his hands, Tony smiled briefly toward toward the Autopsy Gremlin and turned to go.

"Hey, Tony?"

Jimmy's voice was low and hurried, knowing he just had a moment. "Look, you know me, I'm always in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I was just there picking up my insurance forms from HR, but ... Director Vance's assistant saw me and asked if I had a minute to help her and I went in and was looking at her thumb for her, she was afraid she'd might have jammed it or broken it or something, and I _heard._.." He shook his head, agitated. "The door was open, Tony, I don't know why, and I guess he was on the phone with SecNav or someone but anyway ..." Jimmy's voice dropped even lower, "he said something about keeping Pensacola open for another week, that maybe DiNozzo _would_ take it."

As Tony slowly grimaced, Jimmy watched him closely, confirmation in Tony's expression.

"So it's true? You're thinking of leaving the team?"

He shook his head unconvincingly, clearly torn. "Look, Jimmy," he backpedaled, "Vance has offered me a couple things here and there, but I'm still here, aren't I?"

"But you haven't been so unhappy before." Tony's surprise at his words was palpable, and the Gremlin's voice was even gentle in sadness for his friend. "Vance sounded like he was a little surprised, but that he thought you might just accept."

Tony wavered a little, and in the pause they both heard Ducky as he headed back toward them. He began, apologetically, "Jimmy ..." He paused, then shook his head and shrugged, eyes flicking up toward the door that Ducky would soon open as he returned to them . "Not a good time right now – maybe later?"

"Tony..." Jimmy frowned, his concern clearly worse now than it had been.

"I'll keep you posted," Tony heard himself promise. He felt his walls going back up, but wavered, finding himself appreciative of the fact that Palmer seemed to care whether he stayed or went. "Thanks, Jimmy." And as Ducky emerged from the back into autopsy again, he turned to go, calling behind him as he walked,"see ya, Duckman."

"Thank you again for breakfast, Anthony," the doctor called, then looked back to his assistant. Seeing the worried expression there, the doctor's brow immediately clouded. "Oh, dear – not good, Mr. Palmer?"

The younger man sighed, shaking his head. "Not good at all."

_To be continued..._


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made.**

**A/N:** Sorry that this chapter was a bit longer in coming – between work, a great vacation and the time to get used to being at work again, this story took a backseat last month. If you're reading this, thanks for coming back for more, with special thanks for those who have let me know what you think. Comments really do help with determining what made sense and what didn't. Even more, knowing that people out there want to see more really does inspire the urge to keep going!

As always, any and all comments welcomed and appreciated.

**PRETENDING**

Ziva had barely gotten a sip of coffee before Gibbs barked at her and McGee to get back out to Annapolis for follow up interviews. She must shown her surprise that Gibbs was not including Tony or himself in the interviews, given the political delicacy of a death at the Academy, because he stared back at her and grunted, "you got a problem with that, _Dah-veed?"_

She shook her head and managed, "n-no; I just expected... with the SecNav's interest..."

"You don't think the two of you can handle follow-ups, _Probie_?"

She frowned and grabbed her bag more testily than she'd intended. "Of course not, _Gibbs_. We will justify your faith in us."

Gibbs stared at her another moment and finally cracked the slightest smile, clearly amused by her reaction. "You'd better, since DiNozzo and I are stuck here with ADA Neston this afternoon." He watched as understanding settled into her features.

"Ah – the Ratlin trial begins tomorrow, yes?"

"If they don't screw something up or plead him out in the next twenty four, yeah. You two find anything that we can run down here, call it in – maybe we can actually get something done while we're stuck here."

"We will, Boss." Tim came up by Ziva with his backpack on one shoulder, coffee in one hand and a cookie heading toward his mouth in the other. "I'm driving, Probie," he grinned around the cookie as he headed toward the elevator.

She looked to her partner and rolled her eyes, but bit her tongue before automatically snarking that his manners and demeanor were more like Tony's than his own. Grabbing her coffee, she turned to follow Tim in silence, making eye contact with Gibbs one more time and not failing to notice that his amusement had shifted slightly to a question, holding her gaze to see her reaction.

At that, Ziva mentally head-slapped herself, both for letting herself be thrown by Tony's moods and for letting Gibbs sense something was off with her, and stopped to pivot back toward her desk. "Wait, McGee," she called over her shoulder. Pulling a few of the small cookies out of the box and dropping them in a napkin, she folded the napkin over, bravely threw Gibbs another pointed look, and strode out of the bullpen.

* * *

As McGee drove them, rather sedately, back to Annapolis, Ziva's thoughts were miles away, her own gut telling her that Tony's sudden outburst that they were irrevocably different now than they were when they met, and his thoughtful but evasive 'apology' that morning, spelled a rift between them that felt different – and more ominous – than any before, and she was at a loss to know what to do about it. Throughout her time at NCIS she had come to rely on Tony being _Tony_ – often comic and childish, usually tough, resilient, and constant. He was endlessly _forgiving_ Tony, too confident and macho to take anything seriously other than getting the team's backs when it was called for. She knew she took advantage of that sometimes when her own mood turned sour; it seemed she could poke and insult and even belittle him, something she was not proud of afterward, yet he always took it all in stride.

_Didn't he?_

She'd come to assume that would always be so. She had begun to believe that he would always excuse her being too brittle or caustic, that he would always forgive and forget and let things roll off his back and be goofy and even _too_ lighthearted. But the past few weeks made her worry that she had been very wrong – and their confrontation in the garage that morning, confusing as it was, all but confirmed it for her.

"You wanna talk about it?" McGee's words, spoken wearily, interrupted her swirling thoughts. She blinked at him momentarily, and he went on, more doggedly, "whatever it was that made Tony go for the cookies and coffee this morning. Whatever is going on in your head." Tim glanced her way, guessing, "you tried to talk things out with him?"

She nodded, but said sadly, "you were right, McGee, you shouldn't be put in the middle of ... whatever this is with Tony. But it is very good of you to offer."

McGee stared ahead at the road, driving in silence for a moment, then shook his head. "You're both my partners. If it affects you two, it affects the team." He glanced back at her briefly, then added, "I don't want to see either of you so miserable."

_Miserable,_ she reflected. _How did we go from Tony leading the mission that pulled me out of Africa and his saying he could not live without me, to his being miserable by who we now are?_

"I do not, either," she murmured. They passed several minutes in silence, Ziva torn by wanting to spare McGee from whatever it what between her and their partner, but wanting his insight and ideas. "I am not sure what to do, McGee," she finally said, "but I still agree that we should not put you in the middle of this. Tony and I should be able to resolve this like adults, without pulling you into things."

McGee snorted. "Yeah, right." Glancing over to see, to his surprise, a look that was more troubled than indignant, he relented. "Look, I just mean ..." He considered a moment, then went on, "it's been one hell of a year for you, and your being gone was rough on us all ... but especially on Tony. And ..." He hesitated, clearly with one last question about how far to go, before plunging ahead, "you've both had some bad times over the past couple years, some tough relationships. That would be bad enough. What's worse is that when one of you is in a relationship, bad or good, the other goes crazy."

Ziva blinked, denial immediately on her lips. _"What?"_

"C'mon. You both get completely protective of the other. It's some weird sort of denial. The result is that you _both _have the bends after it goes south." Seeing Ziva gape at him, he fleetingly knew he shouldn't have gone down this path, but he also knew that things with the team were steadily deteriorating, and maybe a dose of reality could help. "Look – each of you cares about the other, and ... and I think each of you doesn't know how far that care goes, so you filter it with being partners and with Rule 12 and with denial that you could ever manage to be a relationship with each other and not kill each other. So it ends up that you ... hover."

Ziva continued to watch him, closely, working mightily to find flaws in his argument and coming up short. _"'Hover,'"_ she repeated, skeptically.

"Ziva ... you know that the whole thing with Rivkin, that was more Tony worried for you than anything..." he dared.

"Not ... jealousy?" she asked slowly, remembering Tony's snark about her accusations and wondering why she so glibly threw that word at him so often.

"Were you jealous of Jeanne?" Tim countered. Glancing again to see Ziva's eyes cloud at the reminder of that time, he added gently, "your reaction to her, and Tony's to Rivkin ... they weren't so different, you know."

They drove on in silence as Ziva considered McGee's observations. As they neared the campus, Ziva finally drew in a deep breath. Knowing she needed to set it all aside to focus on their interviews and any new information that might present itself, she offered, quietly, as they pulled up at a light, "I am afraid that this time Tony is not so ready to forgive me, McGee – whatever it is that I have done to anger him."

Tim considered her words, not able to deny her concerns about their partner. "I'm not so sure it's anything specific that you've _done_ – or that he's angry, exactly," he began, slowly. "But ... something's changed, and if he even knows himself what it is, he won't talk about it with me. Maybe with you...?"

"He does not appear to be feeling too communicative with anyone," she shook her head.

"But ... I _do_ think it's something to do with you," Tim said carefully. "And if it's going to be addressed..."

"Maybe I need to insist." For reasons unknown to Ziva, her response made Tim chuckle. _"What?"_ she demanded, exasperation with the whole situation flaring.

He shook his head. "I agree that maybe you need to talk. How you get that done ... well, whatever can finally get you two on the same page." McGee ignored her narrowed eyes as she considered his words and nudged their car forward at the green light. "But I also agree that it's gone deeper for him this time. I don't know if I can be any help, but ... you want me involved, say the word. It's beyond just you two now; it's affecting the team – and if you or Tony think I can help, I will."

Ziva nodded, her worry more insistent now. Of all the things Tim said, things she really needed to consider, the most disturbing was his confirmation that this wasn't just some fleeting dent in Tony's equilibrium. He'd told her before that whatever was throwing Tony, it involved her; now he all but said it fell to her to fix. Or ... if not fix, to investigate.

_No_, she told herself, _to fix._ She would not consider the team falling further out of sync with each other.

As Tim parked and they got out of the car, Ziva worked to table her concerns until they were done with their interviews. She felt the nibbling sense of claustrophobia with what lay ahead in confronting Tony; her fears, both chronic and new, of trusting anyone, of giving in to her feelings, of being betrayed, of being wounded by the loss of so many over the years, told her it was safer to run than to face any more of that pain as unconsciously she suspected the source of his mood. She knew that with so many of her own demons still to fight, she was nowhere near up to such a task yet, but it wasn't something that would wait until she was. Overriding everything else, she owed Tony – owed them _all_ – to fix whatever she might have done to cause his defensiveness and ... anger? ... at her, or at life, or at whatever it was with him.

...because more than any of the emotions she felt as she considered it all, the most pressing was her fear of losing Tony before she really ever found him...

* * *

"Tony..."

_Damn._ He'd managed to avoid her this long; with her off to the Academy with McGee, he hadn't been sure when they'd get back, but Tony stayed busy – and scarce – most of the afternoon by heading down to the evidence locker to review a couple notebooks they'd collected from the victim's dorm room and staying downstairs at their table in the tombs instead of bringing them back upstairs, by taking the long way around the back halls to check in with Abby on her initial blood work results, by stopping in the conference room to review the files on the Ratlin case before the prosecutor showed up to discuss their testimony for Monday. To his relief, Ziva hadn't tried calling or texting him. But as he left Abby's lab for the third time that day, his ninja appeared silently in the hall behind him, a ghost until he heard her speak.

"Wait – "

He wavered, took another step, then waited.

"It is not like you to avoid a conversation..." She saw his sour look, and realized he must have taken it as a dig at his tendency to chatter. _How has it become that he assumes the worst from me?_ she wondered fleetingly as she added, "...when I try to talk with you." His expression shifted slightly, and she decided her words had helped – a little.

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, clearly censoring whatever was going on in his head. After another moment, he drew in a breath, dropping eye contact. "I'm sorry that I went off on you this morning," he said, stiffly. "You've been through more in this past year than anyone should have to face, _ever,_ and it was..."

"Tony..." Ziva came close, not wanted to hear any more of his stilted words, wanting her partner back. "I pushed you when you did not want to talk, and ... you responded," she dismissed his apology to press her own, so he would understand. "I had just come to explain ... and to ... _apologize_, I suppose, for ..."

"No reason to apologize," he managed a pale version of his usual grin, nodded once, and turned to leave.

"_Wait_," she insisted, frustration rooting her to the spot in the empty hallway. "Do not do this, Tony! Whatever is wrong between us cannot continue like this!"

Tony stopped, and silence rang behind her words; for moments after, the only sound was the hum of the building systems echoing in the corridor. Neither moved until, several moments later, the fall of Tony's shoulders signaled his capitulation. He turned to face her again.

"Whatever it is that has been bothering you, these past few weeks..." Ziva crossed the several steps between them. "I know I have not been myself, since my return – at least, not who you remember me to be. And things have been ... strained ... because of it." She watched him closely and, when he did not respond as he would have before to minimize her blame, continued, "but ... something more has changed recently, for you." She searched his eyes, hoping for some clue to what was going on with him, and found him closed off to her. With an unexpected flitter of hurt to see it, Ziva added, softly, "And if I do not know what is wrong, I cannot make it right."

She could not tell if it was her words or something he heard or saw behind them, but as Ziva held his gaze, she was sure she saw several conflicting emotions, old and new, shift through him. It was only a moment, though, before she felt his slight withdrawal from her, as he blinked and looked away. "Bad couple weeks, sleeping wise," he murmured. "There's nothing _to_ make right."

She shook her head, not buying it. "Tony, you cannot tell me that..."

His phone rang; he snatched it from his pocket to his ear, barely glancing at the caller ID. "Boss?" After only a moment, he spoke again, his relief not entirely hidden. "On it." He disconnected the call and gestured down the corridor. "The ADA's here."

"Tony..." She repeated, the 'wrongness' between them widening by the moment.

"Gotta go," he interrupted. "And Gibbs said for you to check in with Ducky." He turned to walk away, breaking into a light jog to put more space between him and the brown eyes that called him back.

* * *

When Ziva walked into autopsy, she wasn't all that surprised to see the lights dimmed somewhat, given the hour and the doctor's bent toward mirroring the passage from daylight to evening in his windowless lab as their work permitted. What did surprise her was seeing their medical examiner in his shirt sleeves, seated at his desk, one of his beautiful porcelain teapots before him wrapped in a quilted cozy, two matching cups and saucers at the ready.

"Ducky? Gibbs said..."

"...that he'd send you down. I'd like you to have that tetanus booster we discussed, Ziva. It's been long enough since you were cleared medically and your medications discontinued. And given what you can stumble into in the field, I really must insist. You are dangerously close to the end of the immunity provided by your last inoculation." Ducky paused and lifted an eyebrow, "and dangerously long since you've shared a cup of tea with me," he smiled. "I've missed our little chats, my dear."

Despite her less-than-satisfying conversation with Tony, the doctor's kindly manner worked to temper the worst of her emotions left roiling moments before. She relaxed a bit and found a smile for him. "Does Gibbs know he was sending me to you at teatime?"

"With him, it comes with a nightcap. He may suspect," the doctor said wryly, gesturing toward the table. Ziva hopped up to sit on the stainless steel surface, rolling up her sleeve.

"Tea, actually, sounds lovely about now," she admitted, suddenly feeling the weight of the hours, her confusion with her partner, and her own struggles to get back into her new 'old' life. "It is very thoughtful of you, Ducky."

"Since my mother's decline, you have all become even more the family I never managed to have, beyond this place. You all mean so very much to me, and I cherish the opportunity to spend time with each of you. And, what with the other signs along the way, I realize that time is fleeting – and marching on more quickly than any of us realize. I am not getting any younger, Ziva."

Ziva sat a little straighter in her concern, all but ignoring the injection deftly biting into her skin. "Ducky – are you alright?"

"Oh – " he seemed genuinely surprised at her reaction. "I am perfectly fine." He busied himself with cotton ball and band-aid on her injection site, and turned to dispose of the sharp and its wrapping. "I say all that simply to explain why ..." He hesitated only the slightest bit, knowing that once he began, there would be no going back, then looked back up at her. "I am stepping beyond the usual bounds of propriety to ... stick my nose in."

_**...to be continued...**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made. Disclaimer of disclaimer: Disclaimer added because, although it does nothing to change the rights of anyone who has an interest in NCIS regarding the use of its work, its absence in this venue might imply something unintended.**

_**As always, thanks to those who have found this and commented, favorited or followed. Any and all comments eternally welcomed and appreciated.**_

**PRETENDING**

"...I am stepping beyond the usual bounds of propriety to ... stick my nose in."

Ziva looked into the kindly blue eyes before her, tipping her head slightly in question. If his words weren't enough, Ducky's tone of voice and the determined, intuitive look in his eye told her two things: the doctor had something to say that he thought she might not want to hear, but that he was determined to say, regardless ... and it wasn't the usual, work related advice Gibbs often asked him to impart. This time it was personal.

Her usual strength of will should have put her on the defensive immediately; her experience, training and emotional self-protection should have raised walls to his words before he could even take a breath. To her surprise, however, Ziva appreciated Ducky's concern, and that he cared enough to approach her with whatever he felt needed to be said. Since her return, she'd fought to maintain an appearance of normalcy; she insisted with each act and word that she neither wanted nor needed any special consideration or treatment as a result of her captivity. She knew she was not yet the same person she'd been, and knew _they_ knew it. They gave her space and time and walked on eggshells around her, which she appreciated – and hated – at the same time.

But they all were moving forward this way, and even her counselor acknowledged there was some progress. _Some._ It was slow, but everyone told her that slow was to be expected. Most of the time, even when frustrated with how things were and how far she had yet to go, Ziva could agree that this way was best.

Yet, here in Autopsy, the kindly blue eyes no longer found the _status quo_ to be enough, and as they peered into hers, Ziva felt the same comfort she had when her aunt or her mother – or even, so long ago, her father – would offer their opinions and advice just because they loved her, and wanted the best for her. The bittersweet poignancy of that feeling, and how long it had been since she'd felt it, led her to swallow the emotion and nod silently, her earlier expression of concern for Ducky melting into one of deference to both his concern and his years. She hopped off the table and stood nearly at attention, eyes lowered, waiting for him to lead.

As he responded with a smile and bade Ziva join him at his desk for tea, Dr. Mallard hoped he hid the sadness he felt at her response, and the look he'd seen from her. Whether it was from her years of training by her father, by Mossad, or her more recent captivity, she had responded with a submission not natural to her but clearly demanded by someone in her life – someone who had felt it necessary to constrain her, if not break her.

She'd survived so much, come so far. At this point in her life, it was time that Ziva David was allowed some happiness. And testing the waters to see how far out he might wade, Ducky mentally squared his shoulders, plucked the quilted cover off his teapot and fixed his features into a charming smile. "Now ... shall I be mother?"

* * *

DiNozzo was _tired._

Sure, it had been a long day. Hell, it had been a long week, a long month, a long year. But he'd had plenty of those and he hadn't been so tired. He'd had tough choices before; he'd carried around decisions and secrets and all the other bullshit before and he hadn't been so tired.

He knew it was _this_ choice. _This_ decision ahead of him, and the unspoken side affects attending it. All because of _this_ woman in his life and his long-resisted recognition of his feelings for her, the effect of her pain on him, the effect of her disinterest in him, her anger at him, her disdain of him, _on_ him.

Whomever it was who said he should grow up, settle down, and find a mature relationship didn't know what they were talking about. Playing the field, hopping in and out of relationships and in and out of bed – after Wendy, his gut had told him it was safer to live that way than to hand out his heart, trusting that it would fall for only those who wouldn't trample on it and leave it in...

"Hey – "

As Tony reached for the button on the elevator panel, the sound of his boss's voice brought his head up and his hand out to catch the door – unnecessary, as Gibbs slid in smoothly before they started moving. He didn't speak; his eyes simply moved from DiNozzo's to the button panel, clearly less interested in where they were going as _getting_ them going.

_Great,_ Tony sighed inwardly. He hit "3" and waited for Gibbs's hand to follow his. He wasn't disappointed. The elevator shuddered to a stop when Gibbs hit the emergency stop button 4 seconds later.

"DiNozzo."

The voice was concerned, all the more reason that Tony did not want to have this conversation. He knew he was supposed to answer, but he wasn't sure what he was supposed to say, or what he wanted to say, or what he wanted to do, apart from going home, pulling a blanket over his head and staying there for several days...

"You still haven't decided about Vance's offer?"

Tony thought of all the ways he could answer, but finally shrugged. "No. Boss..." he began, but stopped as Gibbs held up a hand.

His expression was one Tony hadn't seen often, but had grown to appreciate when he had – a rare, _I've been there and I know it sucks_ look, one of concern and even Gibbs' version of compassion. "Vance has a third option he's gonna suggest. Something you might want to give some thought."

Tony winced. "You ready to get rid of me, Boss?"

Gibbs opened his mouth to respond, but seemed to think better of it and shut his mouth again. He paused a moment, drew a breath, and said softly, "not even close. But you've been ready for your own team for years, and whenever _you_ decide it's time, I don't want to be the reason for your not moving on."

Tony met his eyes and laughed softly, without humor. "Too late, Boss."

Gibbs actually wavered a moment, the sentiment touching him. "Yeah, well," he allowed a rare, sad smile before adding softly, "I also don't want the reason to be that you think you need to leave to fix the team. That should be my job. If there's a problem, I need to address it." He paused for a moment, then acknowledged, "you're right that the team's still off. We all hoped time would get us back to normal, but it hasn't – and it's time I figure out how we fix it. Besides ..." He looked Tony in the eye. "Your leaving isn't going to fix things. They'll just get worse. _Trust_ me on that," he added, speaking over Tony as he drew a breath to protest.

DiNozzo hesitated, studying the man's features for any sign that his conviction wasn't as strong as his words. He saw none. He considered that for a moment before pressing on.

"You said Vance has a third option."

"His second choice for Pensacola is Crisada, who's over in Hong Kong. He's finishing up a six month task force assignment that won't be done for another two weeks, then he's got a few days travel and catching up before he reports here. If he takes a SSA spot, he's got a five day stint here with Vance and HR for running a field office, same as you'd have. The earliest he could take over is a month. Vance is gonna propose you go to Pensacola, run the place for three weeks, and at the end of that time tell him if you want the office or not."

Tony frowned. "But what about Crisada?"

"Vance would send him to another slot, probably SFA in Norfolk – McKinley just put in for retirement to start six months from now. If Crisada was his SFA, he might ease into the Norfolk SSA spot when McKinley retires, if things work out. Or ... he'd let you take that spot instead of Pensacola, if you wanted SSA Norfolk."

The news stunned DiNozzo into a few moments of silence. "Boss..." He finally managed, "that's a lot of screwing around, all because I'm ... screwing around ..."

"Did it occur to you the Director might actually think you're worth it?"

Tony snorted. "Vance?" At the quirk of Gibbs' eyebrow, Tony just shook his head.

"It would give you a chance to see the office ... and to get outa here for a few weeks. Clear your head. Maybe clear some heads here, too." At the question in the green eyes considering his words, Gibbs offered, "I would rather they understand what it would mean to lose you while there's still a chance you'd stay."

After a moment, when DiNozzo had nothing to say, Gibbs leaned over to start the elevator again. As it slowed to a stop and the doors began to slide open, Tony glanced back at his mentor. "Thanks, Boss," he said softly.

"Rule 5, DiNozzo. One of the top five for a reason."

* * *

Ziva found herself relaxing even more with Ducky's attention. The medical examiner who spent long hours talking to the dead – quite literally – certainly knew how to speak with the living as well. Ziva began to suspect that the doctor's long and rambling stories, offered here and there, whether invited or not, were offered for the same purpose Tony offered his nonstop movie references and inappropriate comments – to defuse the tension and stress of a difficult, demanding job; to defuse the tension and stress of working for an often difficult, demanding boss; to defuse _Gibbs._ As with Tony's prattling, Ducky's rambling could lead the uninitiated to underestimate him – which, Ziva suspected, delighted Ducky as much as it did DiNozzo when it occurred.

She watched as Ducky watched her; sensed when _he_ sensed her comfort level increasing. _He would be interesting in the interrogation room,_ she mused to herself. _I would not be surprised if he has taken a turn there already..._

"My dear," Ducky set down his cup, gently, and looked into her eyes. "I have warned you that I intend to stick my nose in where it has not been invited. I appreciate your staying long enough to let me try."

She smiled softly and nodded, again deferentially, readying herself to mask any unwanted emotions that might rise to the surface. As grateful and as comfortable as she might be with Ducky, as much as she felt herself long for the support he offered and she felt, as she'd had from family members as a child, she knew that those years were long past for her, and she could not afford to accept his solice as wholeheartedly as she might wish. _Not even with Ducky, not even with Gibbs,_ she told herself. _Blind trust in __**anyone **__is dangerous – _so she'd been taught, so she'd learned in life. Placing unfettered trust in anyone was as foolish as going anywhere without a knife, and she was as unlikely to let her guard down fully as Gibbs was to forget his Ka-Bar.

"Ziva..."

She blinked, realizing she'd either let her thoughts – or the fortification of her walls – show on her face, because Ducky looked a little more concerned than he had moments before.

"... I would hope that you think of me as a friend, with your best interests at heart. We are quite the unconventional family, but a family nonetheless, and I care very much that you have the life you deserve here. We are alike in that way, you and I, born of one country yet naturalized into this one. We strive to retain the best of the old and embrace all the new has to offer." He watched her carefully, starting with the more neutral topic of her change of citizenship. Seeing her relax a little more, he dropped his voice to add, "and something you have found here, I believe with all my heart, is a partnership that has proven remarkably successful professionally ... yet remarkably ..." Uncharacteristically, Ducky wavered, looking for just the right lead-in to the topic. "... _unfulfilled_" he decided, "for you both."

Ziva blinked, surprised at his words no matter how much warning she'd had of his "intrusion." "Ducky... I am not sure wh..."

"_Tony_, my dear," the doctor said, with just the slightest tinge of disappointment at her resistance, "certainly there could be no question to which partner I referred ... could there?"

His words were soft, his manner ... insistent. "No," she conceded, softly, tipping her head again in her uncharacteristic deference.

"Ziva..." Ducky began, wondering at the source of her submissiveness. The conversation was proving too easy, and as a result, he feared, too easily brushed aside by her. "As an observer of the team for several years – of Gibbs' team, as well as the two member team of you and Tony – I cannot help but offer my observations concerning the two of you. I fear if someone doesn't, soon, there will be consequences that no one will want or welcome."

Comfort, deference, or both notwithstanding, Ziva was still Ziva, and this time, a bit of the Israeli fire bubbled to the surface. "Ducky, _please,_" Ziva urged, "I understand your motives, and appreciate your concern. Just – _please_ – tell me whatever it is you want to say."

The elderly doctor actually relaxed into a bit of a smile at the return, however brief, of the Ziva he'd known before her terrible summer in Somalia. "Of course, my dear." He looked at her without speaking for another moment, then began. "You and Tony are good for each other. You understand each other better than most understand either of you, you understand what difficult jobs each of you has, and know when and how to offer support and comfort for the worst of times. Each of you had a difficult childhood and an even more difficult father. You have, at varying times, stood by as the other fell into an emotional, sexual, briefly committed but ultimately unsuccessful relationship with someone else, all the while feeling your own deep attraction for the other but unable to act on it. With circumstances and Gibbs' damnable Rule 12, you two cycle 'round in this unproductive and unhealthy relationship-that-is-not-a- relationship – and you each pretend that it's nothing of the kind and that you can simply continue like this indefinitely."

He paused for a breath, his gaze that had held her sharpening in assessment. When he saw noncommital recognition in her eyes, and no indication she was going to speak, he went on.

"Ziva, while it is of course _possible_ for such a delicate balance to continue indefinitely, it is not healthy for either of you. And given that you're both still young and healthy and, dare I say, at times rather headstrong – it is not very likely to do so." Leaning forward to emphasize the gravity of his words, he confided, "Tony has again been offered a team of his own. But this time, according to one who has spoken with him about it, he may well _take_ it, and quite soon. Ziva, I have seen how you feel about Tony – and I fear you would be hurt if you never spoke with him about your mutual attraction or the possibility of acting on it. There may quite literally be no time like the present."

As he watched Ziva process the information, Ducky saw that she had not ever considered the thought of Tony leaving the team, and as a million thoughts clearly pulled at her, Dr. Mallard recognized that the timing of events was far from desirable.

"My dear, I realize how difficult this may be for you at this point in your return to us," he urged gently, "and that you are still working through challenges we can only imagine. But... " he added, his voice low and serious, "if ever the time has come for you to speak with Tony about your feelings for him ... and his, for you ... the time is_ now._ Tony, of all people, would understand if you are not ready to discuss more than your wish that he stay here. If you told him only that much – as long as you let him know that one day, when you have done all you need to do to put your captivity behind you, you will be able to spend time discussing the rest – I cannot imagine that he would leave Washington. If you do not, however – I fear he will."

Ziva frowned. Shaking her head, eyes cast away, she balked, "he is an adult, Ducky, and responsible for his own choices. He should not make a career decision based on a something that may never happen, that is not _allowed_ to happen on Gibbs team..." She felt a sudden stinging in her eyes that angered her, hating that her weakness would be on display, even if it was Ducky to see it. "That ... may not be everything you think it is..."

Ducky considered her, his eyes flitting keenly over her face, then spoke calmly, his voice soothing. "Are you saying that you do not have romantic feelings for Tony?"

She hesitated, then spoke again, still not meeting his eyes. "I did not mean me, Ducky. I cannot assume that Tony ..." She considered her words and started over. "I do not know that he has that sort of feeling for me."

"Well, I _do_." His response allowed no room for misunderstanding. "I never had serious doubt of it prior to your reported 'death,' but had I, it would have been erased with events thereafter. That young man was devastated by the news. I saw him after losing his other partner, Kate, and after losing friends like Paula Cassidy or Chris Pacci. We saw him only briefly after we lost Jenny, but it was similar to his grief for the others, even given his readiness to accept blame for her death. His despair at losing you was quite different – and more profound than one might expect for the loss of a team member, no matter how close. He went to Somalia to _avenge_ you, Ziva. And ..." Ducky hesitated, unsure if it was fair to her to add to her burdens, but knew it needed to be said. "Had he gone in alone, he would not have spent the same energy to get out as he did to get in. Because Timothy was with him, he had to plan for a way to return as carefully as he did to get inside." Ducky watched as the "ninja," as Tony so often called her, stared into her teacup, seeing times and places far beyond its surface. "There are no guarantees in this world, and no certainty that the two of you could work, romantically. There is no predicting how the team would be affected if the two of you _did_ become a couple, or if you then had an uncomfortable break-up after you tried. But my darling girl ... think of what it will mean if that juvenile, movie-addicted, pizza-dependent partner of yours walks out of your life before you ever try..."

Ducky watched his "darling girl" as she schooled her features into a controlled, calm facade before lifting her chin and finally meeting his gaze. Slowly, she rose. "Thank you for the tea, Ducky."

The doctor stood quicky as his guest made to leave. "Ziva, are you alright?" he frowned his concern with her reaction.

She nodded, smiling the faintest of smiles – and kept her eyes averted in another deferential response. "Thank you for the tea, Ducky," she whispered ... and turned to move quickly out of Autopsy.

**To be continued.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made. **

_**A/N: wow, so many new readers, likes, follows and reviews! Thank you all who have hung around, with special thanks for you who have sent reviews & other comments. **_

_**This one is shorter than usual, but the story break had to fall where it did. I hope that means that RL won't make it a huge wait 'til next time...**_

**PRETENDING**

It was still dark when Ziva dragged herself out of bed for her run that Monday morning, a bone-chilling moisture in the air and a thick, overcast sky that promised the damp would not burn off any time soon. Setting off toward the north, she stubbornly focused on the moment - the feel of the sodden air on her face, the early morning sounds around her, the scents of the wooded park at her left.

_... the sound of her soles on cement. ...the soft slip of her clothing with her pace..._

She carefully logged all the sounds and scents and sights around her, refusing to let anything else invade her thoughts for the first two miles, not until the rhythm of her stride, once again strong and efficient and reminding her of who she'd been, let her center herself enough to face the weekend's confrontations.

With Tim ... and Ducky...

_With Tony._

She followed the path at the park's perimeter to loop over to follow the canal as it curved eastward. Before the sum of the memories could overwhelm her, Ziva worked to compartmentalize them: two co-workers – friends – made a point to tell her that she and Tony shared ... _something _... that neither she nor Tony would acknowledge. They were also quite certain that whatever had come over Tony – his anger, his withdrawal, _whatever_ it was – she was a part of it all.

Another jogger neared her, nodded her way as he passed.

A part of her – maybe of the _old_ Ziva – urged her analysis of what was going on with Tony, why it was _her_ fault. _No, not __**my **__fault,_ she chided herself gently, willing herself not to become defensive. _They did not even imply it was. But ... why did they believe it is tied to our partnership?_ When Ducky and Tim had raised the idea, she had nothing to offer in dispute. _How can you begin to know the cause when you do not know what is going on in his head?_ Even if she wanted to, she could go nowhere with this until she knew what was wrong, and she couldn't know what was wrong unless Tony dropped his defenses and _told_ her.

She put on a burst of speed and sprinted the next quarter mile. Above her, the sun appeared as a very pale disc, just barely showing itself in the heavy, dove-colored sky.

Rolling her shoulders and neck after her sprint, Ziva settled back down into her usual pace, and centered her thinking again. _Fact:_ everyone on the team had been through an eventful year, not her _fault,_ not at _all_ her fault, but certainly because of her being a part of the team, being Mossad, and being who she was to her father and Michael. _Fact:_ everyone in her life had shown their true colors when information about her and her mission to Somalia became known to them. _Fact:_ she was not yet back where she needed to be, at least in her head, but was healing, the opportunity to do so provided by her team...

_... by Tony. By Tony, and the team, and Tony's refusal to let her 'death' go unavenged ..._

She swerved suddenly onto a path that she knew would take her to a set of steps up one of Georgetown's steeper hills.

_Fact:_ recently, and not due to any particular event that she could identify, Tony's mood and behavior had changed, not for the better, and remaining changed longer than any other odd shift she'd ever noticed in him before, and ... _Fact:_ two of the colleagues closest to her made it a point to voice their concern that it involved her, and, if there was to be any change, would be hers to address.

She shot up the steps as if Saleem and his minions were at the top, awaiting her, so she could exact her own revenge with fists and feet and skills made strong and healthy again, thanks to her team's faith and belief in her...

She doubled over at the top, suddenly winded, unable to get the breath she needed and suspecting that the sob of anger and frustration released with her raging thoughts may have been why...

* * *

Ziva made it in a few minutes before 0630 to find Tim at his desk, alone in the bullpen, a study in concentration. No one else was anywhere to be seen.

"McGee?" She frowned, expecting at least Gibbs to be there. "You are alone?"

"Gibbs and Tony had to take the evidence in this morning before court – the defense wanted to look it over again, check the chain to be sure there was nothing he could use to keep something out. I think they were meeting at 8:00."

Ziva nodded, her mood deflating as her half-made plans effectively scuttled. She hadn't thought about the trial.

She really _was_ distracted.

The trial was in Richmond, far enough that, once there, both Gibbs and Tony would have to stay for the day, unable to just run back to the Yard as they waited to testify. Ziva had heard that this prosecutor usually expected the lead investigator to sit at counsel table with her, and that the previous time she'd had a case with the MCRT, she'd suddenly been much more interested in having the Senior Field Agent at her side, to the great satisfaction of his boss. Odds were good that if a second day were needed, it would be more likely that Tony was elected to go back than Gibbs. She might not see him for a couple days.

Ziva dropped her backpack to sit at her desk, slowly.

She had hoped that she would be inspired into a more complete plan as she saw how things went with Tony that day, but, expecting to see him there before he had to leave for court, she intended at least to offer to cook for him. _Italian._ She would tell him that she had been thinking about their movie nights, how she'd thought of them often during her captivity – _and why hadn't she told him that before? –_ and wanted to thank him for ... for all of it. With or without a movie, she would cook Italian for him; whatever night he said.

And if he turned her down ... she had finally admitted to herself there was nothing else she could do. Twice she'd approached him to talk; twice she'd been rebuffed. A part of her wanted to be irritated or indignant that she should have to approach him at all; he was not a child, and he choose to shut her out. If it had been a more usual pout or snit, she certainly would have left him alone without more than a glimmer of guilt.

But _–_ it _wasn't_. She owed the team, she owed _herself_, to try at least once more, because whatever it was, it was making Tony think of leaving the team this time. And the thought of his leaving them was something that was too painful to leave unaddressed.

* * *

Through the day, Ziva followed up with interviews as Tim worked on cold cases – Ducky's findings had supported their evidence of suicide, and Ziva's final interviews would help document the case report she'd been assigned to write. After a quiet morning, Tim told Ziva he and Abby were having lunch and she was welcome to join them. Sensing their need to have a lunch to themselves, Ziva declined, telling Tim she wasn't too hungry. In all truth, concerns about her partner and whatever had brought things to this point killed any appetite she had.

The afternoon was nearly as slow. They were not off rotation, given the trial wouldn't keep Gibbs and Tony away for long, but Balboa's team was available as well and would likely take any case that came up, since they were at full strength. Gibbs called in only once, to check on the interviews and confirm that there had been no developments, and was vague about the trial. Ziva had been done with her report mid-afternoon but waited until 1900 in case Tony or Gibbs came back. Tim had gone home an hour before that. No one had heard anything from DiNozzo all day.

Ziva found herself distracted through the evening. Reading was impossible, and the last thing she wanted to do was watch a movie alone. Several times she fought the urge to call or at least text her partner. She had an increasingly unsettled feeling, her gut telling her something wasn't right. Her sleep, when it came, was interrupted alternately by nightmares and by the smallest of sounds waking her. When she dragged herself out of bed for her run the next morning, the heaviness in her chest wouldn't leave her alone.

* * *

Again, she arrived around 0630, but this time saw Gibbs' yellow Charger in its usual spot. Tony's car wasn't there, but she often arrived before he did – and he might have been needed in Richmond again. On arrival, she found the bullpen empty this time – Tim was not there yet either, and Gibbs was not in the bullpen. Stowing her gun and booting up her computer, Ziva sat warily, the quiet sounding ominous to her. Outside, she heard the rumble of thunder, and hoped that her mood was simply a reflection of the weather beyond the windows.

McGee arrived by 0710 and confirmed he hadn't heard from Tony since Sunday either, about the trial or otherwise, but added, with a sympathetic look, that he hadn't been trying to reach him. Ziva busied herself with some backlogged paperwork she'd been avoiding, but had to start over a time or two, her thoughts anywhere but on the screen before her. When suddenly Gibbs appeared at the top of the stairs to jog down toward them, her head popped up and she watched his progress with sharp eyes – he was dressed for work, not for court. Without curving toward their desks, he announced abruptly, "goin' for coffee."

"Gibbs – " Ziva stood, sounding a bit breathless, tension clear in her stance. "Where ... what happened with the trial?"

"Guilty," he clipped over his shoulder, without stopping, to hit the elevator call button.

"_Gibbs_ – " Ziva insisted, the sound of her voice leading Tim to stand as well, worry appearing in his face now too. "Where is Tony?"

Gibbs didn't acknowledge the question at first, his back to them, and the elevator opened to let him inside. Ziva opened her mouth to protest and press for an answer, but as he turned, she saw a weariness in his face that stilled her for the moment. Seeming to ignore them as he waited for the doors to close, Gibbs suddenly put a hand up to stop the door from closing at the last moment.

"On his way to Pensacola..." he said. The elevator doors shut between them.

After a moment, Tim broke the silence, his wary voice making clear he wasn't all that sure of his words. "On ... a case...?"

Ziva stared at the elevator doors for several moments, then quickly grabbed her backpack to dig out her phone. She punched #2 on her speed dial.

"Ziva?" Tim crossed over to her. "What...?"

Tony's phone rang only once before it flipped over to voice mail. Silently, she looked at McGee, her eyes boring into his, and held up her phone so he could hear, too. At the end of the message, she raised the phone to her ear and spoke low and fast. "Tony – as soon as you get this, call me please." She snapped it closed and immediately started texting.

"Ziva?" Tim asked again. " ... what do you know?"

She finished her text and sent it quickly, looking back up to McGee again, her concerns taking hold. "Tony was offered another team," she said quietly, "and apparently this time had been considering accepting it."

"Did he tell you that?" Tim gaped, stunned.

"No. But ..." She wavered, blinking back a sudden moisture that stung her eyes. "I was told ... that ... he admitted this to someone. Is Pensacola open?"

Tim went back to his computer, his fingers quickly opening their HR website. "Maybe he's just on a case – Ziva, he wouldn't just leave without saying someth..." He suddenly was silenced as he stared at the screen, eyes widening. "It's posted. Or ..."

"The office?"

Tim nodded. "It's been up for three weeks, posting for an SSA, Pensacola. But ..." He frowned, then looked up at her. "The site was last updated last Wednesday."

"And ... you think that it's no longer available, McGee?" she whispered.

"I can't believe he'd just take off," Tim resisted his own gut's alarms now. "He'd say _something_..."

"With how he's been lately?" her eyes welled against her will and she swiped at them, angrily, in her frustration. "McGee..."

Tim frowned, a stubborn set of his jaw showing his unwillingness to believe the obvious. "Look – Gibbs will know. No use in assuming the worst 'til we know. When he gets back – Gibbs will tell us what's going on."

Ziva had no doubt of that. She was just worried about what he'd have to say...

_To be continued_.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made. Quote and information found below courtesy of NCIS's website.**

_**A/N: Big thanks for all of your reviews and comments – they help so much to know if this story is coming out as it should!**_

_**Several of you have commented about how unfair it is to Ziva that Tony is focus of the team's concern – after all, she isn't long back from her months as a captive in Somalia. Others have noted how 'different' Tony in this. Those two facts are at major play in this – Ziva's recovery is ongoing, but, of course, a slowly evolving thing, not yet near completion, as is understandable, and Tony's several years' progression of questioning his life, his future (what a future with Jeanne might have been; having a successful work life but no one to share it at the end of a long day, as he discussed with Dr. Kate's Sister...) have met up with his loss of Ziva, her reappearance and his confession under the influence of Saleem's cocktail ... and since her return, Ziva's ever-changing approach with him, have led him to finding some inner truths about his feelings for her that he believes will never find fulfillment. A crossroads, indeed!**_

_**Hope you bear with me – we have a bit of a way to go yet. Any and all comments, complaints, concerns or clamoring happily welcomed!**_

**PRETENDING**

Tony shuffled through his backpack, perching on a low cement wall near the loading dock at Andrews as his ride was refueled and repacked.

The last forty eight hours had been busy enough that he'd gone through them numbly, making snap decisions about what lay ahead that he wasn't sure were the best in the circumstances, but were no more likely to burn him than the next. He'd toyed with the idea of driving to his new post, so he'd have his own car with him, but Vance wanted him there as soon as possible and arranged a car from the motor pool on base. He'd considered trying to find his own place online, but got an e-mail from someone named Tyko in the Pensacola office that a rental condo comfortably nearby was listed in the base newsletter, just happened to be open and waiting, furnished and within the price range Vance's assistant had sent to her as within the agency's budget for his emergency posting, that he could use immediately.

Even the attached photos showing a beach view did little to rouse his interest.

What _had_ gotten through, however, was the sheaf of briefing documents in his hand. He wondered what he'd gotten into: NCISRU Pensacola was a lot less and a lot more than he would have expected. According to the public affairs officer, the Naval Education & Training Command's 100,000 plus enrollment, "a high in-transit student population that generates a fast-paced and diverse general criminal investigative workload and provides rich opportunities for proactive criminal operations" made it sound as if he was heading back for another tour as an agent afloat. At the same time, his supervising office, based on the other side of the Midwest just outside of Chicago, was an active participant in a Joint Terrorism Task Force based in Pensacola – which meant he would be, too.

Tony sighed, putting away the briefing materials. It sounded as if he would alternately be a beat cop again and James Bond. He wondered if Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo would stand a chance...

* * *

"Gibbs..."

He didn't need to glance up when he heard her speak. He could imagine her expression – agitated, insistent – the old Ziva who said she was trained to "push push push" for answers and information. Gibbs felt a moment's twinge of sadness at the memory, remembering the conversation with Ziva who at that time, too, was worried about Tony, and how similar it was to events now. Back then she was worried that Tony was sick, that he'd been secretive and absent, and she sensed that things might have gone far enough that it was too late for her to help him – or, when she learned about Jeanne Benoit, to be a part of his life. Now, after her months of captivity and her own struggles, she found that Tony was struggling too, and – once again – she seemed to be worried that she'd noticed too late. Gibbs looked around to see the Ziva he expected to be there, looking to him for information after following him to his coffee shop, trusting that he had the answers she sought and unwilling to wait for him to get back with his coffee to insist that he tell her all he knew.

_...the Ziva he'd seen when Tony was still playing double agent for Jenn now mixed up with the Ziva tortured by Saleem Ulman. And ... the Ziva constrained all this time by Rule 12?_

"Why is Tony going to Pensacola?" she demanded. "Is he ... Has he been reassigned?"

_How much to tell? 'Clear your head,' he'd told DiNozzo. 'Maybe clear some heads here, too. I would rather they understand what it would mean to lose you while there's still a chance you'd stay.' He'd meant it then, and, if it was possible, maybe meant it even more now._

He drew a breath. "Yeah," he said.

He saw the pain in her eyes, the look of someone too often betrayed not to assume the worst. "Why did no one say anything? Gibbs, he said _nothing_ to anyone here! _You_ said nothing..."

Her eyes helped him decide what to say. Whether it was losing his girls, being an "old dinosaur" as Ducky described him, or just having been blessed with extraordinary women on his team, he'd always had a soft place in his heart for the women he supervised. "I wanted to let DiNozzo be the one to say something."

"Well, he did not!" Ziva replied sharply, and felt something hitch inside as she began to realize the unthinkable may have happened. "Gibbs..." she managed. "What happened?"

With a glance to the waitress who brought his coffee to the counter, he tipped his chin to say, "cup of that herb tea too, please, Mary? And another coffee." Pulling out his wallet as he looked back to his agent, he shook his head. "With DiNozzo? I'm not sure, exactly. But with the job – " he paused, then put several bills on the counter, avoiding the brown eyes that looked at him as if he'd let her down somehow. "He needed to clear his head, Ziva," he repeated to her, "needed to get away from everyone here and have some time to think things through."

"So ... he is going on vacation? Or..." seeing in Gibbs' face that wasn't the case, "on assignment?"

"Posted to Pensacola NCISRU for three weeks."

She relaxed, visibly. "Oh. Well ... good. That's _good_," she nodded firmly, trying not to let Gibb see the emotional power that the news had on her. "He will like to clear his head so close to the beach." She paused, and, as an explanation for her sudden appearance, admitted her concerns. "The rumor was that he was offered his own team."

"He _was,_ Ziva."

Her eyes sought his in a flash, and she scoured what she saw there to pull out every thought from him she could. "But... if this is for only three weeks..."

Gibbs took the proffered tea and handed it to Ziva, who took it without registering it. Gibbs pocketed his change and lifted the other coffee cup. "Tony was offered Pensacola," he explained, not moving yet from the counter. "He was considering it, then was offered another week to consider it and took the week. Director saw he wasn't much closer to deciding, so offered a three week trial basis. Three weeks, and he will decide if he wants to stay there, or come back here ... or take Norfolk at the end of the year."

Gibbs started back toward the door and the Navy Yard, but noting that Ziva hadn't followed, he glanced back to see her looking deflated, suddenly. Hurt. _Lost_.

Her pain stopped him. When another moment passed and she didn't move, he prodded softly, "Ziva? You comin'?"

She met his eyes again and he could see the slight moisture she was unable to hide. Rousing herself enough to move, she came up to him and said, "he has not been himself for the past few weeks, Gibbs. I do not know that he will want to stay."

Gibbs hesitated, frowned. From his own observations – and his gut – he couldn't disagree. He suspected that Ziva didn't know what he knew, about how conflicted Tony was about leaving them for his own team. The most important piece of the puzzle, though, only DiNozzo knew – _why_ it was different this time, why he was seriously considering the offers. No matter the reasons, he was in agreement with what he knew his other agent and his medical examiner believed to be true – the key to DiNozzo's decision lay with their newest and still recovering team member, Ziva David.

Who was waiting for him to contradict her, to assure her she was wrong. He shook his head, unable to give her the assurance she needed to hear. "I know, Ziver..." He paused, and spoke softly, near her ear, as he turned to go. "I'm worried, too."

* * *

On the way back to the Yard, Gibbs called McGee to get Abby and to meet him in Autopsy in five. Now that it was clear that DiNozzo left town without telling any of his team what was happening, Ziva's reaction told Gibbs he'd done the right thing by telling her first, alone. It also told him that he needed to tell everyone else. Right away.

_Blunt. Fast. Like pulling off a band-aid._

When he left the elevator to stride in to Autopsy, Ziva at his heels, they were all waiting, expressions mixed: McGee looked wary, Ducky sadly resigned, and Abby, worried. Palmer – well, Palmer was the only one who seemed not just to guess but to _know_ why they were all there.

_Band-aid_, Gibbs reminded himself.

"Tony has accepted a temporary assignment as Senior Supervisory Agent at Pensacola. Three weeks – unless he decides to make it permanent." As he heard Abby's gasp of disbelief, he realized that twice now in the last ten minutes he'd emphasized the fact that DiNozzo was still undecided. As he saw the looks of those gathered around him, he found himself hoping that at least one of them would convince Tony to stay. "Vance wants his decision by the 18th. And if not Pensacola – he has first call on Norfolk when McKinley retires."

"But, Gibbs..." Abby tried, her own hurt bubbling in her voice. "He doesn't _want_ to leave us, does he? I mean, I _know_ he's been kinda sad and prickly and quiet and not-Tony lately, but he doesn't _want_ to go ... does he?"

"He's got three weeks to try it out, and doesn't need to let Vance know until that last week." Gibbs turned to go but, with another thought, stopped and turned back to them. His tone surprisingly quiet, he added, "his cell phone and e-mail are the same." With that, he left Autopsy.

In only a moment, McGee pivoted quickly to follow Gibbs, and Ziva followed McGee. At the moment Abby turned to join the others, Ducky put a quick hand on her arm and shook his head.

"But Ducky..."

"Let his team talk to Gibbs, Abby. Timothy will tell you anything he learns. And we both now that the final, deciding factor for Anthony lays with the team." At the question he saw in the wide, green eyes, Ducky tipped his head, his look calling upon her considerable capacity for insight – _when_ she chose to engage it. "My dear – do you _really_ have to ask?"

* * *

Gibbs wasn't surprised to see first one, then the other, of his remaining field agents slip into the elevator with him as the doors began to close. As the elevator started its ascent, McGee moved as if toward the elevator panel, hesitated, then moved again just as Ziva did. They hit the stop button simultaneously, and as the elevator shuddered to a halt, the overused safety lighting sluggishly lit the car.

No one said anything. After a moment, Gibbs' eyebrows lifted, waiting.

McGee was the first to break the awful silence. "Boss ... what do you think we should do?"

"Your _job_, just like always, McGee." His words were testier than they needed to be, the edge a product of his own frustration with DiNozzo's absence. "It's not the first time this team's been a man down."

_...but other than Tony – both now, and when he was sick – it's been because someone died... or so we believed._

"No, I mean ... should we contact him, or not?" Gibbs reflected on the fact that Tim was more forceful now, even with him, than he'd been before he left for Mexico. _At least some of that was thanks to Tony's guidance, maybe from being Tony's SFA_, Gibbs thought. "You know him better than anyone," Tim was urging. "If we called Tony, or e-mailed him – would it make things better or worse?"

Gibbs considered the pair before him, considered his absent SFA ... thought about his team and their years together. He owed them all his honesty. "I don't know, Tim," he sighed. "I think you each have to go with your gut. It's gonna be different for everyone. But if I know Tony, some kind of contact, saying ... _something_ ... would be better than three weeks of silence. From all of us."

There was silence once again in the small car. After several moments, when no one said more, Gibbs reached out to set the elevator in motion again.

* * *

DiNozzo knew they'd wonder about where he was, given they'd know the time the transport landed and exactly how many minutes it should take him from the airstrip to the office. So he made a call, and with his best Gibbs' brusqueness, asked for his SFA and told him he'd be there in ninety minutes. That done, he killed the connection, took off his shoes and socks, and walked across the pale sand to the water's edge.

Taking a deep breath, he let the sound of the surf wash over him, the early morning sun and warm winds welcoming him back to Florida. Wiggling his toes down into the sand, he didn't move as the foamy water licked at the hems of his sharply pressed khakis. _It would be so easy to run again_, he knew, though he'd promised himself long ago that he'd found a home with NCIS he'd never have to leave.

_Is it running if it's still NCIS? IF it's more than two years? More than twelve?_

More than twelve ... with him more than forty. _When did he hit middle age, anyway? Or was forty the new thirty? _He felt great, physically, was healthy and still in good shape. It was only his personal life that was pathetic and lonely. _Could men be spinsters, too?_

He snorted at himself, drew in a deep breath of salt air and straightened, his gaze hard out over the sparkling blue water. _One week_, he promised himself, _one week to focus on the job and **only** the job, focus on the cases and operations they had here on the NETC and NAS Pensacola. One week of just doing his job before mulling anything over, or thinking about anyone back home, or making any decisions._

As always, Gibbs was right; he needed to clear his head. A week to clear his head, without thinking of anyone back home and without anybody under his nose to distract him with her beauty and sadness and still-unpredictable moods. Maybe ten days, even. Just some time, without distractions to keep him from focusing on his job, to do what he did best. It was a proven thing that relationships were not his forte, and he needed to get back to himself.

_Close the lid on DC, Anthony, and get back to work_, he told himself. _And maybe even back to the beach on the weekend..._

**TBC.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made. **

_**A/N: With each new post in this story, it has been equally exciting to see how many of you have stuck with this story, and how many new readers decide to send reviews or alerts or favorites. For those of you who have signed in and allow responses, I have tried to reply; if you have commented as a guest or disabled your reply feature, please know that the time you took to read & comment was appreciated. **_

_**Thank you all - your comments and observations have shaped many of the turns here along the way. **_

**PRETENDING**

In his first three hours at his new posting, Tony met the two members of his team, the commanders of the two base police forces and the three local law enforcement agencies with whom he'd be working, the NCIS agent assigned to the JTTF (Joint Terrorism Task Force) unit he might call on at times, and the XO of NAS Pensacola. He reviewed readiness reports and confirmed his stores of ammunition and supplies. He caught up on recent case closures with his team and scheduled several range times for his agents on the base's shooting range and nearest academy's range as well.

And he ignored 6 e-mails, 2 voice mail messages and seventeen texts from the District of Columbia.

The following day, a Wednesday, Tony got to his office at 0600, an hour before his team arrived at 0700. With no current cases left pending, his team showed him the base, providing a narrative about trouble spots, hot spots and sweet spots that left him grinning with pride and enthusiasm for the rest of the day, through two simultaneous call outs – and 5 e-mails and 7 texts from D.C.

Thursday dawned just as early for Tony, who was so impressed with his team for figuring out when the new Boss was coming in and showing up 10 minutes earlier than he did, that he went to pick up lunch for them as they finished their reports from their first case from the day before, closed in short order. On the drive there, he noted 4 e-mails, a voice mail message and seven texts from Washington. On the way back to work fifteen minutes later, the numbers had inched up to 8 e-mails and 10 texts.

_Guess it's lunch time there too_, he figured. That night, he posted an e-mail to everyone who had been contacting him.

* * *

At the soft ping of her phone announcing an e-mail, Ziva bolted up from the couch, where she'd been trying – unsuccessfully – to read. As much as worked to keep her hopes from running too high, she held her breath that it was from Tony.

_Her thoughts were suddenly taken with Tali, and a moment one summer when her own, big-sister rant had resulted in the girl's light laughter. "You are a control freak, Zivaleh," she'd chided affectionately, stubbornly unfazed by her sister's affronted protests. "You are! When things happen that you cannot bend to your will or dig into for answers, the steam shoots straight out of your ears!"_

It was not until she had come to NCIS, away from her father and Mossad and their regimented approach to things, that she finally began to see what her sister had seen in her at those rare but powerless moments. She reflected now that most of those times involved her inability to fathom what was going on in the mind of Tony DiNozzo. Every time she thought she'd figured him out, every time she thought she understood him, he'd throw her a curve. The only things she knew for sure was that the simple, goofy 'horndog' was anything but ... and even the great Eli David had been thrown by his sophomoric veneer.

As she grabbed her phone and forced herself to take a breath, to center herself and be ready for whatever she saw, she allowed a moment of pride in her sister. _How wise she was to recognize that which I did not, until so recently. Something to remember..._

She opened her eyes, opened her phone screen, opened her e-mail. It _was_ from Tony ... to everyone. His e-mail, subject line "Pensacola," was sent to McGee, Abby, Ducky, Palmer and herself, with Gibbs' address in the 'copy' line. She frowned at first, and as she read, felt her chest tighten at the simple note:

_Thank you for the calls and messages. I hope you won't mind if it takes me a week or so to get back to you. Things are busy here._

_Tony_

Before the note, Ziva would have sworn that hearing _anything_ from Tony would be better than the not knowing and the vacuum he left behind. Well, she'd been wrong. His brief e-mail to them all, sterile and impersonal, made things more confusing ... and much, much worse ...

* * *

On Friday, Tony's team again got an early start and a good bit of work done on their pending case, which, with some poking, had proven to be the tip of the iceberg in a small but robust black market operation run by locals. Targeting the large resident student population, they traded in cheap (read stolen, or knock-off, or both) IPods, phones or tablets, clothing and jewelry, even concert tickets. Once the team alerted the state police and their role became one of support rather than lead, their work load lightened, as did the mood of their small squadroom. By 1900 hours Tony wandered out of his 'closet' (tiny as it was, it was an _office_, and it was _his_) to face his troops.

"Good work this week, you two." He stopped at the single table in the middle of the room where the pair were working. " I know we got thrown together here sort of last minute, but you guys made it work, and I appreciate it." Pausing a moment, making sure his words and his thanks sank in, he then offered a quiet smile. "Time to go home." As they stood, grinning with the order, DiNozzo added, "so I guess we're on call damn near every weekend here, huh?"

Tyko, the more junior of the pair, chuckled as she hefted her backpack to her shoulder. "You bring another team with you you didn't tell us about?"

Tony smirked at the recent FLETC grad, whose confidence, gained from being the youngest in a family of brothers, father and uncle in law enforcement, belied her probie-ness. "Good point. Well, we'll work something out. We get call-outs on the weekend, I'll do my best to get you some pay back time during the week as soon as we're caught up. Deal?"

Both pair of eyes blinked at him. "I thought the Director wasn't able to approve that," his other agent, Morrisey, said.

"Hmm. Really?" DiNozzo appeared to mull it over. "Well, I wasn't going to bother him with it. It probably takes a whole bunch of forms we don't want to mess with anyway." With a quick glance to each other, his team then looked to Tony with growing understanding and appreciation. "I need you guys on top of your game," Tony said, his voice serious. "When we get a chance for sleep, we take it. We'll work it out," he assured them, then added, grinning, "now get outa here before the Director calls me and tells me to keep you late for some reason."

He watched them shut down their computers and answered their good nights with a tip of his chin. He stood in place for a few more minutes, looking around the room with a practiced eye. After a moment's reflection, he took a deep breath and sighed it out, his shoulders falling as he finally let go. The week had gone well, he reflected with some relief. They'd been successful with both cases that had come in and had made points with the local LEOs.

_... but it wasn't __**his**__ team ... it wasn't his __**family**__. It wasn't the team he'd waited for so long to take over from Gibbs, when the Boss was ready to step down. It wasn't Tim or Ziva. Gibbs wasn't there to help him work through the questions. _He glanced again at his phone and felt a pang of regret. Despite his e-mail last night, today there were more 2 e-mails and 3 texts from those he'd left behind.

It had been a good week, no question. Tony knew he could work with the two agents on his team, and knew they appreciated his approach. The fit could be a good one, and it was his – if he wanted it.

_Give it a week_, he reminded himself, _maybe ten days. Honeymoon may be over if we get called out on the weekend or if some bad habits appear that they've covered up so far. It's too early to know if this mutual love-fest will last._ And too early to know if he would change his mind – one way or the other – once he listened to the voice mails and read the e-mails and text messages his team had been sending him.

He stood, suddenly weary, and grabbed his backpack. He crossed the room to the doorway, took another look around his squad room and, after a moment, flipped off the light and pulled the door closed behind him.

* * *

As it had every other evening that week, Tony's plan to stop and get a few groceries on the way home was jettisoned as soon as he was behind the wheel, just wanting to get home and relax, to forget about anything NCIS for a few hours. He had a six pack in the fridge and a pizza take out number on it. _Just what the doctor ordered for the evening._

The sun was still generously above the horizon and the evening breezes were warm and inviting. He wasn't really that hungry yet anyway, and the white sands and soft surf beyond his window were hypnotic. In less than five minutes Tony shed his work clothes to pull on cargo shorts and a polo, grab the six pack, and head out to the sand. Sitting down in the sand on a slight ridge made by repeated tidal shifts, watching the waves roll to within a foot of his toes in the sand before him, Tony opened a beer and drew a mouthful, swallowing appreciatively. Overhead, gulls circled; sandpipers tirelessly ran down to the water's edge as the waves went out, then arced back to run away from the encroaching water as it came back up across the sand. He idly wondered how long they would keep it up before becoming bored or tired , watching them as they went about their endless dance, always circling within inches of the water's edge yet never quite being caught by the waves. _Like dancing along the edge of safety, with endless cases and the never-ending parade of bad guys..._ he mused.

The beach wasn't deserted, but peopled only with a few families still lingering from their day at the beach, a handful of couples here and there taking an evening stroll, some runners pacing along the water's edge. They were all far enough off that the sound of the surf masked all but the loudest of their laughter and words. As he drew on his beer bottle again, a movement down the beach a way caught his eye, and Tony turned to look at the form nearing him – despite clothing which was decidedly out of place, a slender man, maybe his height, negotiated the shifting sand with a practiced walk, not letting it slow his pace. DiNozzo stared as the man neared him, his dark jeans and black sport coat sharp against the blue sky and white sand. Surprise, on top of everything else that had rocked him in recent weeks, left him speechless.

Neither man said a thing as McGee crossed the last couple feet of sand between them, pulled off his sport coat, and sat beside him. Finally, after several minutes, McGee nodded toward the six pack. "Got an extra?"

* * *

For the fifth time that hour, Ziva looked at the time read out on her computer screen, then glanced at her watch, as if in the few minutes since her last check, one or other of them would have jumped significantly ahead of the other. Her restlessness was clearly not missed by Gibbs.

"Go home, Ziver; you're a bundle of nerves."

"_I_ should have gone," she murmured again, more to herself than anything.

Gibbs finally turned to look at her more fully. "No," he admitted, "I think Tim was right. Maybe soon, but right now, you've still got enough of your own healing ahead not to have to worry about Tony's, too. Give Tim a chance to talk with him."

Frustrated, again feeling impotent, Ziva got up to pace over toward Gibbs' desk. "Did you say anything to him, Gibbs, to ask him to stay?" She finally addressed one of her nagging concerns enough to confront her boss with it. "Have _you_ tried talking to him since he left?"

Gibbs pulled off his glasses and looked up at Ziva, his eyes meeting her demanding gaze full on. "To the first question, yes. But not what you'd want me to say."

"You did not _encourage_ him to stay?"

He sighed. "Tony has been offered and turned down three teams since I got back from Mexico – Rota, which you know about, and two more after that. Those last two times, the ones I knew about, I told him he was ready, and both times I told him I would be happy for him if he left, but happy for us _all_ if he stayed. He knows I'll back his decision, whichever he does." He saw her react as expected – with frustration that he hadn't just prevented DiNozzo from leaving. "You know – even if you don't like it – it's the only right thing for me to do."

She sighed, deflating. "He is ... my best friend, Gibbs. And I have not always honored that. Or acted like it."

Gibbs watched her, without speaking, waiting for her to say more. When she did not, he repeated, more softly now, "go home. Try to get some sleep. We're off rotation for the weekend; Vance knows we're two down. Worse case, we might be asked to assist another team, but we won't have a new case assigned to us until Tim's back." He considered her for another moment, then added, "McGee's got this one, Ziver."

Torn between arguing and knowing it would serve no purpose, still toying with the idea of hopping a plane herself but knowing that Gibbs – and McGee – were right, she simply nodded and turned, reaching for her pack and jacket, and left the squad room without looking back. As she disappeared from the squad room, Gibbs, now alone, didn't try to hide the worry drawing his brow into a frown. He wasn't sure exactly what had him worried the most – Tony, Ziva, the clear connection between them – or a mix of everything going on with all of them.

* * *

Tony had drained his beer and had started another before he finally spoke. Tim's was more than half done. "How'd'ya find me?"

"Well, I'm a federal agent, Tony," McGee drawled, a wry sound to his words, "I used the secret decoder ring."

"Oh – so you _are_ gunning for SFA," he joked weakly. McGee's his voice and demeanor had been so completely normal, not for the tiniest moment reflecting his unexpected appearance, that it took all the focus Tony had to shove down a rush of homesickness for the people and places he'd left behind.

But after only a moment, and a sigh, Tim answered. "No, I'm not." Seeing a slight but definite physical reaction – surprise? – from his own SFA, McGee said, "look – the team works, just how we've had it. We've had our problems, and our good points and bad, but ... honestly? If it had been me who was offered another job, as long as you or Gibbs was still there – I wouldn't leave."

"Not Ziva?"

"She's ... different," Tim began. "I trust her the way I trust you guys, but ..." He paused, looking for how to explain things. "We were a team before her and without her, more than once. It's different."

"She and you were on a team together though, too, without me and without Gibbs." Tony challenged.

"I know," McGee agreed softly. "It's just ... _different._ If you want me to make something more up, I will, but it just _is._ I can't imagine ever trusting anyone other than you three. If I have to someday, I'll try, but ... I don't think I would do so by choice." He paused, "Tony, of all of you, I haven't had as many experiences with other partners, deciding who I can trust or can't trust in the field. If I have to I will," he repeated, "but it wouldn't be by choice. You've had to make that decision before and had to change partners, so you'd be in better shape to make that assessment. Maybe for me the choice is easier, not having that same experience."

"Why are you here, McGee?"

Tim looked to his partner, silently, then looked out over the water. He considered, then shook his head, and with a shrug, admitted, "'cos you'd do the same for me, I guess."

"Do what?"

"I dunno. _Be_ here. Be nearby, if ... if you wanted to talk ... or just to tell you that we're worried you'll make this permanent. No one wants to see you go, Tony. Everyone is worried that you're serious this time." At the older man's grimace and slight head shake, signaling his disbelief, McGee added, knowing what must be on his mind, "Ziva wanted to come too, Tony. Or – more like – be here _instead_ of my being here."

"Oh, yeah?" The slightest edge of bitterness entered DiNozzo's voice, and he worked to temper it. "Why didn't she?"

"I talked her out of it."

Tony turned quickly to look at Tim, beside him, anger beginning to bubble deep inside as he searched the man's face for an explanation. _"Why?"_

"My gut. I didn't think you needed to face each other right now."

DiNozzo's eyes narrowed at his probie's candor and muttered, "We're adults , McGee."

"Really? I haven't seen it lately." Again, green eyes met green, but somewhere in DiNozzo the certainty and strength of McGee's convictions got through, and the rash response he'd felt building in him was tempered. "Look, I _get_ it," Tim reasoned, "I know something's been eating at you. But whatever it is, you'll find your way and your footing and you'll plow through. But Ziva..." He didn't finish his thought.

"Ziva can take care of herself," Tony half growled, masking the hurt.

"Which Ziva? The one we knew before she was tortured, or the one who came back to us and won't tell her teammates when she's hurting?" Guilt threaded through Tony, fighting with the hurt of his own that he'd started amassing well before she'd been taken captive. "Can she take care of herself? Eventually again, sure. Now? Yeah, probably. But I don't want to take that chance."

"Who put _you_ in charge?" DiNozzo snapped, propelled by hurt and loss and the fact that McGee showed up to press him to think about things he'd hoped to avoid a while longer.

"All of you!" McGee retorted. "At least by default! _You_ won't discuss it, Gibbs is letting it play out, Ziva's grilled me for information about you both... Abby complains that everyone is hurt and needs fixing, and Ducky wants everyone to be happy with whatever happens. So I'm stepping in here, Tony." His short spurt of ire burned off, McGee wavered, hearing nothing more from his partner for long minutes, whose eyes remained fixed on the tiny birds running away from the water then back in toward the waves, never pausing, never tiring.

"Why?" Tony finally asked, with all the pain, weariness and hopelessness he'd been feeling poured into that one syllable.

McGee broke his gaze from the birds to look at the agent beside him, his teacher, his friend. "Because it's what you taught me to do."

**...to be continued...**

* * *

**A/N #2:** For guest reviewer "Mary" and those who think this is headed into a "blame Ziva" fic: As I asked in the last chapter, if you bear with me, I don't think you'll find blame or bashing by me or by the characters, unless you are reading in between the lines and finding character intent that is not there. All I can offer is a look at my other stories, which will show you I have not blame or bashed any of the NCIS characters in any of my stories.

This story addresses not only the reality that more than one person can be hurting at a time, but that each person in a work environment may develop different ties with different co-workers. I would hope that anyone who finds that this chapter blames or bashes Ziva gives it another try, and as far as possible, read from a neutral perspective, without defensiveness for any particular character. If it still sounds negative toward Ziva after an honest review, then I need to find a way to make the same point without shortchanging her. I am happy to have everyone's comments and views about the story; however, as author, I reserve the right to suggest, when appropriate, if someone is finding negatives where none is presented. If there is a criticism to be had, then, I don't believe it's that I blamed Ziva for Tony's problems, but whether or not l left it too murky to tell the difference. If I did, I need to know that.

That said, the scene at issue was written from this approach: Tim was truly a probie when he started on the Navy Yard, receiving different flavors of "tough love" from Gibbs, Tony and Kate. When Ziva first arrived - efficient, skilled, a bit intimidating and self-sufficent - Tim was much less of a probie in general, and more of a peer to Ziva, whether or not he always felt it. Tim does say he trusts all three with his back; he says the team **as it is** works for him. However, he acknowledged his own career choice would be influenced **differently** by Gibbs and Tony - his two teachers - he did not intimate that she's not a part of the team for him, or not "good enough." Again, I believe a fair and neutral reading of the paragraph will show this.

~S~


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed. No profits made. **

_**A/N: thanks to all of you who have kept with this story. Extra thanks to those of you who have left comments or sent PMs about where things are going – seriously. I welcome anything anyone has to say. Although I can't guarantee I can agree with everyone (not in this fandom, at least – a literal impossibility, given all the ships and factions!), feedback helps tremendously, because I never know if things sound the same outside of my head as it does inside – or when they do, if it's a good thing. **_

_**(Inside, at the moment, there's still a good bit of tony & Ziva angst-ing afoot...) **_

**PRETENDING**

Ziva knew how to fight. She knew how to throw a punch. Along with her several martial arts skills, she had been taught how to make a proper fist and land a punch and do some real street-fighter damage to her opponent.

But at this moment she was pummeling the large leather bag as wildly and out of control as if she were untrained, tears of anger and frustration and hurt that she would never, ever let the team see coursing down her cheeks. She knew that Gibbs was right and she should have gone home, but she could not; she knew she should have called Pamela for a yoga session which was far more healthy for her, physically and mentally, than was this anger, but the thought of trying to handle her careening emotions with the self-control imposed by yoga seemed alternately to be a sham and a joke and an impossibility. Her team was fracturing and no matter what logic tried to tell her, she could not escape the feeling that it was largely her doing – no matter that it was not her choice, no matter that both Saleem and her father had used her in unspeakable ways, the part each man played in her life in over the past year had led to her team's involvement because their loyalty to _her_, and, as a result, the team itself was a casualty, too – and she was too broken herself to fix them.

She hit faster, harder, a cry of anger escaping as she did. Gasping, she bent over, palms on knees, her gulps for air not due to her being winded. Almost immediately she came up for more, battering the bag, as she pictured Saleem's face, the faces of the callous and cruel and arrogant men who filled her summer, as she attacked.

_How long?_ she pleaded again, her prayer swirling upward, punctuated by her fists. _How long will they hold me captive? How long after their worthless souls were sent to their maker will they be allowed to have their way with me? And when they're done ... will **that** be enough? _she let another, hidden fear have its voice, o_r is there more than only this summer that has poisoned our lives? Have I brought more than only Somalia into the lives of those here who welcomed me onto their team?_

Past the sound of her fists on leather, silence swirled around her, and once again Ziva wondered if she had forever lost the right of having her prayers answered. Her breathing became difficult, the physical and emotional war within her struggling against the newly added pain and exhaustion of her workout.

"Ziva..."

She hadn't heard the woman enter, and given she was not trained to be stealthy, her unnoticed appearance shattered another little piece of what was left of Ziva's tenuous control over her emotions, and she dropped her face, ashamed, into her hands. As her shoulders shook with sudden, voiceless sobs, the slender, strong arms of her yoga teacher snaked around her.

"I am sorry..." she managed.

"Shhh. No need," the woman soothed. "A bad week?" At the silent nod, the woman held Ziva, supportive and strong. "I suspected as much, when you missed class all week but didn't call for a session. Can I help?"

Ziva shook her head, the familiar, calm voice providing comfort and provoking more tears, all at once. "How ... could you know...?"

"A hunch." Pamela loosened her hold on the younger woman, still bowed by her pain, and gently lifted a hand to look at her swollen, bruised knuckles. "Ziva – you're injured..."

"It is nothing. It will heal..." she shook her head fiercely. With Pamela's observations, Ziva became self-conscious, something she had not felt with the woman for several weeks now.

"Some ice, at least?"

"I can do that, at home. Pamela, I am sorry..." As she pulled herself together, Ziva felt the shame of losing control. "I should have called you. And I should not have ... have ..."

"Ziva, you're hurting," the woman interrupted gently, "and more than this, with your hands. Something is very wrong, for you to end up here like this, beating yourself up."

"It was not something that yoga could fix."

"I know," Pamela soothed. "That's what worries me. It looks as if you are trying to cover your pain by hurting yourself even more. I'm no expert, but ... that sounds to me like you still blame yourself for what happened to you. You should not fault yourself for being a victim."

"My father would," she whispered, "but ... I do not," she whispered, sounding as if she was trying to convince herself as well. "Not for what happened over the summer."

"For what, then?" When the large brown eyes filled again, involuntarily, Pamela's brow drew in worry lines and she tried, "you have been haunted by your attackers for a while, but you were making your way through that. Now...? Something more has happened?" she guessed.

Ziva shook her head, silently, knowing that if she tried to speak her voice would fail her.

"Ziva ..." her teacher urged, "whatever it is ... this isn't good for you, you know that." Pamela watched the hurting woman in genuine concern. "Is it something at work?" She knew that Ziva's waking hours were filled with her job, leaving little down time and therefore little life outside of her team. "Is there someone you can talk to about it? Your boss?"

"And tell him that I cannot cope with change? That I cannot live with his rules, anymore? That I cannot get past what the bastards did last summer and cannot pass twenty four hours without remembering every moment..?"

At the cascade of words, only some of which made sense to the older woman but all clearly mixed up in her student's pain, Pamela gently slid her hand around the back of her neck and rubbed gently, hoping to ground her. "Ziva, I know you're hurting ... I'm sorry. I want to help. Maybe ... if we could find someone for you to talk to ..." she suggested. She had offered before, and had been turned down when she had. _Maybe this time,_ she hoped, _maybe she'd be ready this time._

"No one has helped ... other than your classes, your sessions," Ziva rasped. "Talking does nothing."

"It might now. Or not, but ..." Pamela looked at her, concern in her eyes. "If a session would be helpful, I have time now. Or if not ... talking might. Something for you to do instead of trying to punish yourself because you can't fix everything wrong and bad and ugly in your life, and to keep hurting yourself until you can."

Another tear slipped from Ziva's eye as she blinked, and Tali's amused admonition about being a control freak circled like woodsmoke in her thoughts. "Someone has to make things right," she pleaded, "and talking doesn't change things."

"Neither does hurting yourself." Pamela looked at her student – her _friend_ – and calmly, hoping that Ziva's words now meant she might be willing to at least share some of her thoughts, smiled her encouragement. "If a session will not be helpful, then ... how about a glass of wine and some girl talk?" At the look of hopelessness and confusion and hurt and disbelief in the woman's eyes, Pamela tried, "not something you have allowed yourself too often, I suspect, but maybe something you need, once in a while. _Ziva_ ..." Pamela urged softly, sensing she might relent and come with her. "Something's _got_ to give. If you don't let some of this go, you'll explode – you _were_ exploding, when I came in. If your teammates can't help, and you won't see a therapist – let me try."

With a shuddering sigh, Ziva considered the person she'd trusted with more of herself than she had anyone else, since escaping her captors. "It was good of you to come, Pamela, but you do not need..."

"_Ziva_," Pamela urged again, reaching out with all she had, sensing the other woman's yearning for human contact. "I would like to buy you a glass of wine. I would enjoy the company." The silent, slow nod, and the tiny, grateful smile that finally came long moments later, was the answer she'd hoped to have from the wounded woman. "C'mon..."

* * *

"You like it? Being boss? In a different office?"

_With a different team?_ Tony heard behind the words, as surely as if McGee had said it out loud, as he tried approaching things another way.

They'd been sitting quietly for several minutes now, side by side, staring at the surf, too much history between them to have much left to say. McGee had laid it all out, why he'd come, what answers he wanted; Tony just responded with stony, defeated silence. As much as he appreciated his partner's concern, he knew he wasn't up to thinking yet, to weighing the pros and cons of all he needed to consider. He wasn't ready for the brutal honesty with which he needed to decide if he could do his job in arm's reach of Ziva and accept the fact that she would never be more than a work partner and platonic friend, because he knew what the answer would be.

Over the years he'd argued with himself that he could be there for her and the team, be _around_ her, no matter what. Lately he'd begun to realize that he'd been able to do so only because he believed, deep down, that she'd come around, that someone he'd fallen for, someone he _loved _as much as he loved her, would be drawn in by the same magic that had worked on him. All he would need to do was be patient.

But after months together and months apart, on different continents or just a few feet apart in the squad room, after torture and rescues and returns, Tony finally began to admit to himself that if she hadn't been swept up in the magic yet, it wasn't ever going to happen, and that sometimes, life just sucks.

DiNozzo allowed himself a glance up at the man sitting next to him, knees drawn up and sitting in the sand, clearly as at home on the beach as the bullpen – and DiNozzo remembered fleetingly that his probie had done a stint in California when his father had a posting there. McGee had come for all of them, for the team, taking matters into his own hands when the others could not – or would not – and was clearly here for answers. For discussion. DiNozzo knew as certainly as he knew anything that he'd come of own accord, mind made up to come, probably just quietly getting his tickets and walking out of the bullpen, maybe mentioning it in a few brief words to the boss. He realized how far Tim had come to be the man he was now, and Tony allowed himself to feel a sense of pride to see it.

Tony looked back over the water, weighing more aspects to it all than Tim could imagine, before finding his voice. "Yeah," he admitted. "Coming in as boss ..." DiNozzo suddenly realized there weren't many easy ways to say this to his ... former? ... teammate. "They expect you to walk in and start ordering them around, making rules and telling them what to do. There's a built-in level of..." He paused, realizing that no matter how he said it, now he'd just sound pissy, but McGee would know if he wasn't being honest. And as far as Tim had come to see him, at the very least he owed him honesty...

"Respect?"

Leave it to McGee to see it easily and save him the trouble. "Yeah," Tony admitted, almost guiltily, relaxing his guard with McGee's understanding. "It's just ... easier. On everyone. I come in and they _know_, coming in, that what I say goes. Not like shifting gears from teammate to team lead, for any of us."

Yeah," McGee nodded. "I can see that it would be."

"Kinda like how Lee was. I mean – she knew when discussion was over. The way _we_ do, with Gibbs."

"We weren't so good at that, with you," Tim acknowledged.

"You were getting there. I would've had the same problem." DiNozzo minimized the resistance he'd gotten, at first. "And we were doing pretty well there at the end, weren't we? We were on the right track. Our closure rate was still good, and the grumbles and pushback were easing up. I always thought it was mostly the shock of Gibbs leaving more than what you guys were really thinking about my lead."

McGee considered, and pressed, "honestly?"

Tony grimaced and looked out over the water again, thinking it over. "On a good day," he finally sighed, looking again to his probie. "Made my bed, McGee," he shrugged. "Overall, it wasn't too bad a choice – you can learn a lot, _gain_ a lot, when people dismiss you. It can hold you back, though, too." He changed his tone, and the subject, abruptly. "You hungry, McGee? You came all this way. At least I can buy you dinner."

"I could eat. Any good seafood here?" Tim grinned. The one time the team had been sent to Pensacola, they'd had fish and Gulf shrimp they were still talking about years later.

"Seafood central." Tony stood, brushing off the sand clinging to his shorts, then grimaced. "You know, one thing that sucks here – no one else to take weekend call outs."

"So – not just Gibbs' version of never be unreachable, but – officially? All the time?"

"I guess. Haven't exactly figured what the alternatives are, since we're it. I think we need to work that out. I probably shouldn't have even had those two beers until I know the score on that."

"I've seen you function pretty well on twice that, at least."

"Yeah, well ... we need to come up with something." He started across the sand toward his condo, rationalizing, "maybe we take a day each week when we don't have an open case where two of us are sure to abstain while the third has a night, if they want. Or something..."

McGee stopped, looking at Tony, hard, causing the older man to stop as well and look back at him. Before he could ask, Tim spoke. "You're really thinking about staying, aren't you? About leaving D.C."

Tony wavered, too many thoughts competing to find an easy answer. "I have to at least think it through. On most days it seems as if it would be better for everyone."

Tim stepped closer, looking his mentor in the eye, wondering what he could say that could change Tony's mind. "Maybe from your perspective. But I don't see it that way, and I'm pretty sure everyone else agrees with me. In fact, I'm pretty sure you're the only one who thinks that your moving on would be a good thing."

DiNozzo held his partner's gaze for several moments, but Tim never wavered. Finally, he admitted, "I don't think ..." He stopped, words not coming. No matter what he might have thought before, Tim was now sure that this was no sulk – Tony was battling his own demons, knew how his moods had affected the team – and was trying to find a way around them. McGee knew in that moment it would not be Tony's choice to leave the team, not if there was another way, so his next words, aching and hollow, were unexpected. "I don't know how I can stay."

"Ziva." Tim said. When his only response was a look of pain in Tony's eyes, one he'd never seen before, he urged, "you know what she's been through and you know she's not herself. You can't make a decision based on what's happening with her now..."

"Even before that ..." Tony wavered, not really ready to lay it all out for himself, let alone for anyone else. But this was McGee, who stood eye to eye with him, wanting to help, wanting to convince him he still had a decent life back in D.C. " ... _before_ that. You saw almost all of it; you were there though most of it. She doesn't ..." DiNozzo hesitated, unwilling to go down that particular path – they both knew he was thinking about the times they sniped and snarled at each other, the times he was sure that Ziva didn't think much of him in any capacity. "But somewhere in it all, I ... I realized ... that there wasn't anyone else in my life who meant as much – who could mean as much – as Ziva. She was the _one_, ya know? And I just sat back, deciding I could wait for her to feel the same way, because if I could feel all that, there was no way she wouldn't get swept up in it all, too. I knew if I just_ waited_, she'd realize how she felt about me, the way I did about her."

Tim remembered Tony's despair when they'd thought she'd drowned ... his words uttered under truth serum ... his looks and actions around their partner, his concern and his sometimes over-the-top protectiveness. He'd known something was there, after all, the first time agents Tommy and Lisa bantered their way across the pages of his book...

"Well – you know how that turned out. It never got better, only worse, and by the time everything went to hell with Rivkin and in Israel, she was ready to put a few bullets in me, for real. That was all long before she was captured. At best ..." DiNozzo worked to keep things factual and to ignore the emotional toll the realization had had on him, even then, "she trusts me in the field again. She trusts me as a partner. As for the rest..." He just shook his head. "It was easier to deal with it all when I could still believe that someday..." Again, he let his words fade, the rest too difficult to voice. "But ... I think it finally got through my thick skull that it won't ever happen. And ever since, every time I see her ... every time she tries to apologize or explain or ... whatever ... I can't hear it. I go off on her. She tries to be nice and it makes me crazy because it's not enough." He frowned, his breathing ragged as he held back his emotions, "and I hate what I'm doing to her most of all."

McGee watched his partner struggle with the hurt he felt. "Tony ... take the weeks here, then. Maybe get past your initial reaction. Maybe you both need some time to bounce back."

"Or maybe it's just best that we all get on with things." And breaking their gaze, Tony turned back again to trudge on across the sandy beach to his condo.

**To be continued.**


End file.
